Artistic Temperment
by leyapearl
Summary: Frank held his glass in one hand, gently swirling the amber liquid. "You know how we get a lot of art gallery jobs? Designing and updating their security systems when the exhibits change?" Chet nodded. "His was the first gallery that hired us." Frank took another sip from his glass, his eyes tightening as he swallowed, then set it down. Encrypted series flashback.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

"Yes, sir… Well, I would be happy to take a message, sir. If I could just have your name..."

Even through the mostly closed door of his office, Joe could hear the exasperation growing in Chet's voice, which was both odd and surprising. Chet was usually completely unflappable, dealing with impatient, angry, or devastated clients with compassion, empathy, and a stash of dark chocolate drops he kept hidden in one of his desk drawers.

 _I guess he got enough practice dealing with us over the years,_ Joe thought. _Although, he never soothed_ me _with chocolate._ His mouth watered at the thought of the drops, and he stood and pushed his chair back. _Can't hurt to check on him, right?_

By the time he got out from behind his desk and over to the door, being very careful not to disturb the piles of folders on the floor, Frank was already standing beside their friend, his eyes watchful as Chet flipped through a small notepad.

"Sir." A note of steel went into the word, and Joe started. While he regularly heard that tone of voice from Frank, it was unusual coming from Chet. "I need to know..."

He moved closer, caught between curiosity and concern, and mouthed "Who is it?" at Frank. His brother's dark eyes flickered up then back at Chet, his shoulders raised in a mute shrug. Frank's mouth was drawn into a hard line.

Chet pulled open one of his desk drawers, drew out a small spiral-bound notebook, and started flipping pages. "Sir, I need to put you on hold for a moment. Thank you for your patience." He blew out a breath. "Wow, this guy won't take no for an answer."

"Who is it?" Frank's arms were crossed over his chest, a look of irritation on his face.

"Don't know." Chet shook his head, his eyes skimming the pages as he rapidly turned them. "He won't give me his…" He stopped and pointed at a line on the page, showing it to Frank. "That's the one. I _knew_ the gallery name sounded familiar."

Frank's eyes widened, then narrowed. He looked up at Joe. "Von Ormond."

Joe's blood ran cold. "Von Ormond?! That G-d damned piece of..." He reached over the desk to grab the headset from Chet's head, but Frank beat him to it, lifting the device to his ear and mouth with lightning speed.

"Mr. von Ormond, this is Frank Hardy." Frank's voice was an icicle, and all sound ceased from the headset. "We informed you by letter we refuse to work for any gallery that employs you and wanted all communications from you to cease. If you call our office again, we will file a restraining order with the police and instruct our lawyers to sue you for harassment and stalking. Am I clear?" He paused only long enough to take a breath, not waiting for an answer. "Good." Then he disconnected the call.

Chet let out a breath, his color slowly returning to normal. "Wow. That guy's a piece of work. Wouldn't let me get a word in edgewise. I can see why you canned him as a client."

Joe barked out a bitter laugh. "That's not why we canned him. 'Piece of work' doesn't even begin to cover what he did. That son of a…"

" _Joe._ " Frank put his hand up. "Not the place, little brother." He let out a breath and raked his hand through his hair. "I don't know about either of you, but I feel the need for a drink. Chet, do we have anything else scheduled today?"

Chet shook his head, stunned both at the statement and the vehemence in Frank's voice. "Nothing. No appointments until tomorrow."

"Good," Frank said, smoothing his hair back down. "We're closing early." He nodded toward his still-seething brother. "Joe can't go home to Kara like that, and you need to know why we won't ever work for _that one"_ – he jerked his head toward the phone – "ever again." He looked down at their friend, a bitter half-smile twisting on his lips. "We probably should have told you this story sooner. There's a pub on the way to the subway station." He turned and walked back to his office, stopping just before he entered. "Stick a sign on the door, and get your things. It's going to be a long afternoon."

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

By the time they got to the pub, ordered drinks and some food, and commandeered a quiet table near the back, Frank felt calm enough to take a sip of his whiskey rather than down the whole thing in one gulp.

Joe, on the other hand, grabbed his glass, poured its contents down his throat without sitting down, then headed back to the bar.

Chet held his beer between his hands and watched his friend storm off. He took a sip from his glass, then put it down and pushed it to one side. "So, what did this guy do?"

Frank held his glass in one hand, gently swirling the amber liquid. "You know how we get a lot of art gallery jobs? Designing and updating their security systems when the exhibits change?"

Chet nodded.

"His was the first gallery that hired us." Frank took another sip from his glass, his eyes tightening as he swallowed, then set it down. "He was in charge of exhibitions at the Michaels Gallery. They had a large installation coming in from an 'up and coming'" – he made air quotes with his hands – "artist and needed to update their security for it."

"So they wanted you. Wise choice." Chet glanced at Joe's back as he leaned against the bar waiting for his drink, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. "When was this?"

"When we first started out," Frank said. "It was a fantastic opportunity for us to get our name out there."

Joe returned holding a bottle of craft beer in one hand and a fistful of peanuts in the other. "Yeah." He sat down, taking a long pull from the bottle as he did so. "Fantastic. Right." Sarcasm dripped from his words.

Frank nodded at him. "You might want to slow down, there, little brother. I want you to get back to Kara in one piece."

Joe acknowledged his words with a wave of his hand. "The first one was medicinal. This one's to drink."

Chet cleared his throat. "So, what happened?"

Frank sighed and turned his gaze back to Chet. "Right after they hired us, I got called away for a freelance job with the Bureau." His eyes flickered to his brother, one eyebrow lifting slightly. "So Joe had to solo it. It didn't go the way we planned."

Chet looked at Joe, then picked up his glass. "And I'm guessing 'not the way we planned' means that things went wrong?"

Joe snorted then took a long pull from his beer. "Wrong enough to make sure we never work for that bastard again. _Ever."_


	2. Chapter 2

_Thanks to max2013, Caranath, TaoTheCat, EvergreenDreamweaver, sm2003495, BMSH, p9119, Penelope Jadewing, Xenitha, Paulina Ann, hlahabibty, and Barb for the reviews and follows. Thank you also to those who read but didn't review. I appreciate you all. There are four completed chapters of the story so far, with the fifth mostly done. I will post one a week until those are up. After that, updates may be more sporadic as RL dictates…_

 _Now, to find out what has Joe so ticked!_

* * *

Even in his sleep, Joe could tell something wasn't quite right. He shifted slightly, slowly becoming aware that a) he was being watched, and b) he was lying on his back. Which couldn't be right. The only time he ever slept on his back was when he was sick or when he was...

 _Crap._

He cracked his eyes open and forced them to try to focus on what was around him. Things were blurry, but if he squinted he could make out unadorned pastel-colored walls, florescent light fixtures, and rails flanking the sides of the bed.

A hospital. Definitely a hospital.

 _This can't be happening,_ he thought, letting out an annoyed breath. _Tell me this isn't..._

"Welcome back, little brother."

He shifted his eyes to the side of the bed where the voice had come from.

Frank sat in a chair leaning over the railing, his facial features somewhat out of focus but his expression definitely torn between worry and amusement as he watched the rapid-fire change of emotions on his younger brother's face.

Joe shook his head, pressing his hands to his eyes. "No. No, no, no, no, no. This is _not_ happening." He tried to push himself up to a sitting position, but the motion made the room spin violently, and he fell back on the pillows, closing his eyes so he could try to get his equilibrium back under control. "Damn!"

"Is this a common reaction?" The voice – pitched low, but definitely female with a noticeable Latino accent – came from the curtain behind Frank. Joe didn't recognize it. A nurse maybe?

"Just let him get it out of his system," Frank said, turning slightly in her direction. Joe could hear the concern under the dark humor in his brother's voice. "You won't get anything out of him until he's done."

Joe dropped his hands to his legs and felt a thin, cotton blanket covering the crisp sheet pulled tight against his thighs. It smelled faintly of bleach.

 _Damn. If I can smell that, it isn't a dream._

His shoulders sagged deeper into the mattress. He sighed and opened his eyes again, noting everything around him was still hazy.

"How long have I been out?" he asked, not really wanting to know the answer. "And what happened?"

"A while," Frank said. "I've been here almost four hours."

Joe squinted down by the floor and saw what looked like the outlines of at least three large, disposable cups in the trash can next to the curtain. His eyes widened. This was an indication of how worried Frank really had been. Even for a caffeine addict like Frank that was a lot of coffee in a relatively short period of time.

"We're pretty sure you were drugged. They're not sure how much time passed before you were found. The gallery owners found you unresponsive and tied to a chair. They thought you were dead. Scared the hell out of them." He pushed an unsteady hand through his dark hair and let out a long breath. "Me, too," he muttered.

"I'm fine. Just pissed off." Joe banged his head on the pillow. Something seemed to be off with Frank, but he pushed the thought away for a moment and tried to focus on what was happening. "At least tell me the 'art'" – he raised his hands to make air quotes – "is still there."

Frank twisted around, nodding to someone Joe couldn't see. "And this is where I turn the proceedings over to someone else."

A woman ducked through the curtain around the bed, moving like a large blur into Joe's field of vision. It was a little hard to tell, but she appeared to be of average height, Hispanic, probably in her early forties, with short, dark hair and a what he thought looked to be business-like expression on her face. Her dark blue suit had probably seen better days, and the pockets of her pants seemed to bulge slightly, something that was verified when she pulled a small wire-bound note notebook from one of them. She then retrieved a pen from the inside pocket of her jacket and appeared to nod a greeting.

"Mr. Hardy, I'm Detective Susanna Rodriguez of the NYPD. I'm sorry we have to meet under these circumstances." Her tone was disinterested and business-like. "I'm investigating the theft of several large works of art from the Michaels Gallery. Can you tell me what happened to you?"

Joe put the heels of his hands back over his eyes, hoping this would help them focus when he opened them again. The persistent blur was starting to give him a headache.

"No, I can't," he grumbled. "Why don't you tell me?"

"Joe..." Frank's voice held both understanding and a note of warning.

"I know. I know." Joe waved his hands at his brother then turned his head, eyes still shut, back in the detective's direction. "I'm sorry. I'm still a bit foggy. And this wasn't how I was expecting this night to end." He cracked his lids up and turned back to Frank, annoyed that his brother's features were still hazy. "Wait, you've been here four hours? What day is it?"

"Friday." Detective Rodriguez answered the question. "Around three in the afternoon."

"What?" Joe's voice rang out in the tiny room. "What the hell time did von Ormond get there?"

Rodriguez flipped the notebook open and glanced down at it. "Mr. von Ormond said he got to the gallery at nine-thirty this morning."

"He was supposed to meet me there at eight," Joe growled. He turned to Frank again. "I told you I didn't have a good feeling about this job. I told you..."

"Mr. Hardy." The ice in the detective's voice brought the temperature of the room down about twenty degrees. "What happened?"

Frank's hand came to rest on Joe's shoulder. "Detective, my brother has just regained consciousness." His voice was steel edged with protectiveness. Joe could feel his grip tightening incrementally with each word. "He is understandably disoriented. He'll answer your questions, but you will need to be patient."

The words were more an order than a request, aimed – Joe realized – at both of them.

Rodriguez puffed out a breath, glared at Frank, then shifted her gaze back to Joe. "I realize this is a confusing and traumatic experience for you, Mr. Hardy." The words, mechanical and completely lacking both in sincerity and empathy, made Joe snort." But I need you to answer the question. What. Happened?" She enunciated the last two words clearly.

Joe felt a squeeze from Frank's hand and knew what his brother was silently telling him.

 _Answer, but just what's asked. I can do that._

He let out a breath and counted to ten in his head before answering. "I don't know. Not exactly. The last thing I remember is turning off the main lights and going to von Ormond's office to get a chair."

"And what time was that?"

He thought for a moment. "The staff hadn't been gone that long. Maybe fifteen minutes." He let his eyes relax and stared off into the blur for a few seconds. "The gallery closed at nine. Staff did some clean up. So, maybe nine-thirty?"

"And then?" The detective's voice was hard.

"I don't know. I told you. I went into the office to get a chair and then… I don't remember." The room suddenly felt crowded and close. Joe's stomach turned over, and cold sweat broke out on his forehead. He clamped a hand over his mouth.

"Joe?" Frank's face swam in front of his.

"Bucket," he said through gritted teeth and fingers, his other hand reaching out. "Now."

Detective Rodriguez skin turned a sickly green, and she cleared her throat. "I'll check back with you later, Mr. Hardy. I hope you feel better." She ducked behind the curtain as Joe retched into the trash can Frank managed to hand him just in time.

When his stomach finally calmed down, Joe reached out for the damp cloth Frank was holding out, chagrined that it took him three tries to get it in his hand. As he wiped his face, he could feel Frank's eyes on him, not needing to see him to know they held a question.

"Well, if that's all it took to get rid of her..." he joked, then grimaced as his insides clenched again for a moment. When the spasm passed, he lay back down feeling completely wiped. "Okay, we need to find out what the hell they gave me so I can never, ever have that in my system again."

Frank disappeared into what Joe guessed was the bathroom and came out a moment later with something white in his hand. "I'll make sure we get the results of the tox screen." As he got closer, Joe could see it was a cup. Frank helped him lift his head, then held the cup to his lips allowing him sip the cool liquid without choking. "That better?"

Joe nodded. "Yeah. Thanks."

"Any time, little brother. Any time." There was a faint tapping noise as the cup was placed on a table, then a 'poof' sound as Frank sat back down on the chair. "Okay, so what _did_ happen?"

"That's the frustrating part. I don't remember. _Anything_." He let out a growl, raised a hand to rub the back of his neck, and squeezed his eyes shut. "And right now, I feel like crap. Every muscle in my body aches, I'm completely exhausted, and my vision's off."

"Off?" Frank's body stiffened in the chair, and he leaned forward, pressing something on the wall by Joe's head. "What do you mean off?"

"Wonky. Everything's kinda blurry. I'm sure it will go back to normal in a minute or two." Joe moved his hand from his neck to his face and rubbed his eyes. Again. Then he opened them and blinked a few more times, hoping _this_ time his vision would clear.

 _What's that they say about doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different outcome? Ah, never mind._

The door creaked open, and a different female voice said, "Is everything all right, Mr. Hardy?"

Joe turned his head in the direction of the speaker, but before he could open his mouth, Frank spoke.

"Can we get the attending physician to take a look at my brother? He says there's something wrong with his vision."

"He's awake?" Surprise was evident in the speaker's voice. The curtain was pushed aside, and Joe could see a black-haired, dark blue blur in the doorway. "The detective didn't say anything about him being awake."

"Well, I am, and I want to go home now. Can you make that happen?" He started to sit up, but Frank's hand pushed down on his chest, forcing his head back onto the pillow.

"Not until you've been looked at." The voice was firm, but there was a hint of a smile in the words.

The blur moved closer, and Joe could make out dusky skin and a surprisingly vibrant purple eyeshadow, although the nurse's features were still indistinct. What he had thought was hair turned out to be a headscarf of some sort.

"Nice to see you awake, Mr. Hardy the younger," she said, grabbing his left hand and flipping it over so she could take his pulse. "So, what seems to be going on with your eyes?"

"Just call me Joe," he said, smiling up at her. "Please."

He could just make out an answering smile on her face.

"Nice attempt at redirection, Joe. I'm Sarai." She placed his hand back down on his chest. "Now, tell me what's going on."

Feeling his brother's eyes on him, he repeated his symptoms to Sarai.

"Muscle pain?" There was a puzzled tone in her voice that he didn't like. "You weren't by any chance at a bar or a party were you?"

"No." He started to shake his head, stopping when it rekindled the queasy feeling in his stomach. "I was at work."

"But I thought the police detective was here because..." Sarai's voice trailed off. "Well, never mind."

"Rohypnol?" Frank's voice was subdued.

Sarai lifted her face to Frank's. "Your brother's complaints are consistent with what we've seen from other victims."

"Wait, are you saying I was roofied?" Joe could feel the anger rising in his chest, burning away the nausea and the aching muscles.

"We won't know until your screen are done," she said, then cleared her throat. "Have you been checked for any signs of assault?"

"What? No!" Anger was giving way to outrage. "Nothing happened!"

Frank laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. "You don't know that, Joe."

Joe shook his hand off, scowling. Frank shrugged and moved his hand to rub at his own eyes, a mirror image of the motion Joe had been making. Even though he couldn't make out the details, Joe could see how was tight the motion was, tight enough for him to realize how tense his brother was. And there was still that something else going on that Joe couldn't put a finger on.

When Frank spoke again, his voice was softer. "You just said you don't remember what anything. We need to get you checked out."

Joe took a deep breath and counted to ten before speaking. "Fine," he said through gritted teeth. "Do what you need to. Then I'm going home."


	3. Chapter 3

Thanks to Cherylann Rivers, Paulina Ann, Caranath, max2013, EvergreenDreamweaver, BMSH, Xenitha, Barb, SnowPrincess88, TheSecretWhisperer, hlahabibty, sm2003495, and all who read.

 **Chapter 3**

Nothing in Joe's life up to this point had prepared him for the screening.

Two nurses – one male, one female – came into his room with a box they set on the table. When the female nurse – she introduced herself as Amy – asked if he wanted someone with him during the screening – an advocate or someone like that – Joe automatically tilted his head in his brother's direction. "Him. Just him."

That lasted about forty-five seconds, right about the time the male nurse's questions shifted from "What is your full name?" and "What's the last thing you remember about last night?" to "How many sexual partners have you had?" and "Male or female?"

At that point, Joe turned to his brother, his face flaming, and muttered, "Out. Now." Frank bolted, his jacket still hanging on the back of the chair.

Over the next several hours, Joe was poked, prodded, combed in places he never knew needed combing, and stared at under a high-powered florescent lamp until he thought he could feel his skin starting to sunburn.

When it was finally over, the male nurse – Joe was pretty sure he'd said his name was John – pulled off his gloves with a snap and gave him an encouraging half-smile. "If it makes you feel any better, we're not seeing any signs of physical assault."

Joe let out a breath. "A little." He shifted on the bed, trying to straighten out his hospital gown without being noticed. "I can't even begin to imagine having to go through all this" – he waved a hand at the table, now covered with papers – "after having been..." His voice trailed off, and he swallowed. "Or not knowing if you have been." He shook his head.

Amy sighed. "It's something we see far too often."

There was a knock at the door. It opened a crack, and Frank's voice sounded in the room. "Is it safe to come in now?""

"We're done here," John said, balling up the gloves in his hands and waving to Frank as he entered the room.

The nurses gathered up the items scattered on the table. Amy nodded to Joe as she walked past Frank and out the door.

John stopped before following her. "Hey," he said. "This is going to sound… odd, but thanks." He shrugged his shoulders, a sheepish look on his face. "I don't usually get assigned to one of these, and it's good experience for me."

Joe grimaced. "I'd say I was glad to be of service, but I'm really not. Sorry."

The nurse nodded. "Yeah, I know. I just wanted to let you know I appreciate it." He cleared his throat and turned to Frank. "You can take him home now. He should be all right after a good night's sleep. If he's not, bring him back in the morning." He turned back to Joe. "I hope you figure out what happened to you." He ducked his head down, then left the room.

"You okay?" Frank's voice was soft, almost tentative.

"What do you think?" Joe growled, then blew out a breath. "Sorry." He sighed and lifted his hand to rub his eyes again. "Can we just leave now? I want to go home ad pretend this day never happened."

There was a soft thump on the bed, and Joe felt his brother's hand on his shoulder.

"I got your clothes," Frank said. "I'm just going to close the curtain while you change. Give you some privacy. I'll be right here."

"Privacy… That'll be a nice change. Yeah. Thanks." Joe heard the curtain's rings slide across the bar that came down from the ceiling. He pulled off the hospital gown and started dressing. "What time is it?"

"After dinner." Frank's voice was subdued. "Hungry? We can get Chinese delivered to my apartment if your stomach is up for it."

"Your place?" Joe pulled his shirt over his head, noting a faint sweet smell coming from a stiff, stained spot on the bottom hem. _Cola?_ "Just take me home. I'll be fine." He stopped for a moment, trying to remember when he may have spilled whatever it was on himself. "Wait. It's Friday, right?"

The curtain opened, and Joe could just make out the expression on Frank's face – worry and determination mixed together. He blinked a few more times. Were those smudges under his brother's eyes? He couldn't tell.

"Yes, it's Friday, and no, I'm not leaving you home alone tonight after this..." Frank's voice broke off.

"You heard the nurses. I wasn't assaulted!"

"No," Frank conceded, "but you were drugged, and I'm pretty sure leaving you by yourself would be a really bad idea." He stared as Joe shook his head. "What?"

"I have… _had_ a date with Liz tonight. She's going to think I stood her up." He levered himself up off the bed, noticing again the ache in his thighs as he stood.

Frank sighed and lifted a hand to rub his temple. "Liz. Is she one with the squeaky voice?"

"Her voice isn't squeaky," Joe said. "It's just high-pitched. _I_ think she's cute."

"I think she sounds like a twelve-year-old impersonating a grown-up," Frank said, his voice dry as sandpaper. He put the hand that had been at his forehead out to cut off his brother's protest. "And she knows you aren't going to be there tonight."

"You called her?"

Frank's body tensed for a moment, then relaxed. "No, little brother. I didn't know you had a date with her." He paused for a moment, then let out a breath. "She was with von Ormond this morning. She was the one who found you."

"Damn. There goes my chance with her."

"I'm sure she'll be willing to give you another shot," Frank said, a resigned tone in his voice. "Now, you just get in the nice wheelchair when it arrives, and we'll get out of here, okay?"

Joe scowled. "Only until we get outside."

"I wouldn't expect anything less."

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

When Frank left to call the cab, Joe attempted to charm Sarai into letting him leave without having to actually get in the wheelchair but had no luck on that front. His only consolation was the mild flirting they engaged in during the extremely slow trip which made the whole thing slightly more bearable.

When they finally got to the front doors the cab was waiting, its yellow paint shining in in the floodlights like a beacon against the darkening evening sky. Joe squinted against the brightness and in doing so was just able to make out Frank's outline leaning over the driver's window, one arm propped on the car's roof.

With Sarai's help, he stood grimacing as his aching thigh muscles cramped and almost sent him falling back into the seat. Wobbling and holding on to the nurse's arm to keep himself upright, he realized his brother was right. Between his inability to see properly and the way his body felt, he couldn't go home. He scowled.

"Are you all right?" Sarai's voice held a note of concern, and Joe loosened this death grip on her arm.

"Yeah. Fine," he said through gritted teeth, irritation starting to course through his veins.

 _I hate that he's right all the time._

He glanced over at the cab in time to see Frank straighten, something in the set of his shoulders bringing back the feeling from earlier that something wasn't quite right with his brother. Even knowing how unreasonable it was, Joe felt a hot flash of anger burn through him from not being able to figure out what was wrong.

 _What am I missing?_ He snorted. _Other than the last twenty-four hours,_ _d_ _amn it._

He stayed silent, lips pressed in a hard line, as Frank and Sarai guided him into the cab's back seat. He nodded at what he thought was a wave from the nurse as the cab pulled away and sat, Frank fussing over over him, until he was finally pushed to the breaking point.

"Give it a rest, 'bro. I'm fine!"

Frank scooted over to the other end of the seat and turned to look out the window.

Joe let out an angry breath and turned so he was facing the away from his brother and watched the scenery blur by.

 _Two can play at this game_ , he thought.

After a few minutes of stony silence, the cab slowed to a stop, caught in a traffic snarl.

Joe let out another long breath, his fingernails drumming on the armrest under the window. He sat seething for a moment or two longer, then turned to make a snarky comment in his brother's general direction. Instead, he was startled to find Frank's head lolling forward on his chest, eyes closed and mouth open.

 _Just how long was I_ in _that hospital?_ He counted the hours back. It was definitely evening now, the sky darkening to various shades of blue, so maybe… _Eight hours? Twelve? Then why's he…_

The memory hit him like a ton of bricks.

Frank wasn't supposed to be here. He was supposed to be in…

 _We_ _ll, wherever it was that FBI agent sent him this time_ , he thought.

He stared at his brother's face, trying to focus his eyes enough to see more detail in the headlights of the other cars. Were those dark circles under Frank's eyes? Or did his eyes just not work well enough yet to tell? He swallowed back the words that had almost come out of his mouth and carefully – making sure not to aggravate his aching muscles even more – slid closer to his brother, making sure he wouldn't be jolted awake when the cab started again.

When they finally got to Frank's building, he gently shook his brother awake.

Frank's eyes snapped open. "What?" His voice sounded gravelly but alert.

"We're here. I, uh..." Joe swallowed. "I might need some help getting inside."

"Sure." Frank stretched his arms out in front of him. "Just give me a sec." He paid the cabbie, then got out and stood by the door. "Slide over until you can grab my arm." Once Joe had done so, he pulled his brother to his feet. "You okay?"

"Yeah." Joe swayed for a second, then steadied himself by putting a hand on the door. "Thanks."

After the cab sped off, they shuffled towards the door. The building's doorman held it open until they had made it inside, then rushed ahead of them to call the elevator.

"You all right, Mr. Hardy?"

"Fine, Paul, thanks." Joe was grateful that he recognized the young man's voice. Paul had just graduated from high school, although he looked a lot younger, and had been given the position when his grandfather had retired. His voice, a light tenor, reinforced the impression of a boy dressing up in his father's work clothes. "Just a case causing some problems."

Paul chuckled. "Don't they all, Mr. Hardy?"

Joe snorted. "In different ways, Paul. In different ways."

When they got to Frank's apartment, Joe allowed himself to be helped onto the bed, hearing rather than seeing Frank remove his own jacket and shoes on the other side of the room before coming back over the bedroom area to help with his.

"So, your gig is over?" Joe carefully flexed and pointed his toes, his sneakers dropping to the floor.

Frank half yawned. "What?"

"The FBI gig. Agent Short Girl? What's her name again?"

"Don't let her hear you call her that. She'll rip you a new one. Malone," Frank said, pulling off his shirt and rummaging through a drawer for a new one. "And you know this. Her name is Kara."

Joe let out a breath. "You're avoiding the question. Were you done?"

"I am now," Frank said through the fabric covering his face. "When Patricia called, I told them I had to go."

"Wait." Joe put up a hand. "I don't have a number where I could contact you, but our _receptionist_ does?"

Frank snorted. "No. She called the local office. When she told them what was going on, they contacted Kara who called my burner phone." He sighed and stifled another yawn. "I wasn't expecting to hear from her so soon. Startled me a little." He sat down heavily on the edge of the bed. "Then she told me why. I told her I needed to leave, and she arranged transportation home for me."

Joe squinted. "You were up all night doing surveillance, weren't you?"

"How did you….?"

"'Bro, you fell asleep in the cab, and you can barely keep your eyes open now." Joe rubbed his own eyes again. "Look, have you got any cans of soup or something? We can have that for dinner, then call it a night. I'll take the couch. You can have your bed."

"Uh, no." Frank shook his head. "Two reasons. One, the last thing I need is you possibly aspirating if you vomit in your sleep..."

"Thanks for that image," Joe said, putting a hand over his face. "I really needed that."

"And two," Frank continued, ticking the second item off on his fingers, "they want me to wake you up every couple of hours to make sure you're okay, and I'm too tired to move across the room to shake you. So, we're both sleeping here, and no pushing me out of the bed like you did when you were six." He paused. "Why don't you go take a shower. I'll go heat up the soup.."

Joe thought for a moment. "Sounds good. I might need a little help getting there, though."

"Understood." Frank stood. "I'll get you a towel. You can wear some of my stuff to sleep in, and we can stop at your place in the morning on the way to the precinct."

"The precinct?" Joe couldn't mask the shock in his voice. "Can't they give me a day or so to get whatever the hell this is out of my system?"

"You didn't think Detective Rodriguez was going to give up that easily, did you?" Frank's voice faded as he disappeared behind the bathroom door. "She called while I was waiting for the cab. I told her we'd stop by in the morning after you've had some time to recover a bit."

"Great. Just what I needed." Joe put his face in his hands. "But I guess they need to find the art, don't they?"

"I'm a little more concerned that they're not looking into your assault. Makes me think they're considering you a suspect," Frank said, suddenly appearing back at Joe's side. "Come on, let's get you in the shower. Then I'll go see what's in the kitchen."

"Yeah." Joe sighed and shifted forward. Frank leaned over and wrapped an arm around his back, helping him stand and shuffle toward the bathroom.

The hot water felt good and helped his muscles relax enough that he could get dressed and make it back to the bedroom part of Frank's studio unassisted. The bowl of soup and the half-sleeve of crackers he mixed into it helped even more, settling the remaining queasiness in his stomach and raising his blood sugar enough that he only felt exhausted instead of half-dead.

"You know," he said to Frank as he settled back down on the bed, this time under the covers, "I think that's the first thing I've eaten since last night at dinner."

Frank grunted and reached over to grab his phone. "Me, too." His punched a few buttons on the keypad. "Two hours. Get some sleep. We'll see how you're feeling then."

Joe nodded and rolled onto his side. "Sure. No promises about not pushing you on the floor, though. I hate being woken up from a sound sleep."

Surprised at the silence from the other side of the bed, he slowly shifted to his back and turned his head.

Frank was already asleep.

Shaking his head, Joe took the phone from his brother's hand, put it on the nightstand, then reached back over and turned off the light.

"Night, Frank," he said, then rolled on to his side and closed his eyes.


	4. Chapter 4

Thanks to Cherylann Rivers, Caranath, EvergreenDreamweaver, Paulina Ann, max2013, Guest, Barb, hlahabibty, centaurdy jackson007, Jilsen, SsowkiN, SnowPrincess88, and all who read but didn't review. (You know who you are...)

 _ **Chapter 4**_

Despite having been woken up three times before the sun rose, Joe had risen feeling much better than he had the day before. His vision was nearly back to normal and the aches in his muscles had subsided, but seeing the expression on the detective's face once they had gotten to the station had almost completely destroyed his good mood.

Detective Rodriguez had apparently gotten up on the wrong side of the bed that morning.

"You're late," she said as she entered the interview room where he and Frank had been sitting for nearly fifteen minutes.

 _Someone hasn't had her coffee yet,_ Joe thought, throwing a glance at the large travel mug Frank was gripping in his left hand.

"Good morning to you, too, Detective. And, yes, I _am_ feeling better. Thanks _so_ much for asking." He let the sarcasm wash over her for a moment before continuing. "Any idea who it was who attacked me?"

Frank shot him a look, and he shrugged. That he had apparently been drugged and tied to chair seemed to be something Rodriguez kept conveniently forgetting, and he would be damned if he would allow that to happen.

The detective sighed. "We're looking into it. If you could tell us what happened last night…?" She let the question hang in the air.

"Nope." He popped the 'p' at the end of the word. "No clue. Any leads on the art?" He felt a sharp pain in his instep as Frank whacked it with his heel.

Rodriguez bristled visibly. "I was hoping you could enlighten me as to what happened."

"While I was unconscious?" Joe snorted. "Not likely."

This time Frank hissed, throwing a side glance at his brother. "Look, Detective, we'll be happy to share whatever information we've got on the art, the set-up of the gallery, the..." There was a faint buzzing noise, and he broke off, grabbing the phone from his pocket and glancing briefly at the screen before bringing his eyes back up the officer's. "I'm sorry. I have to take this." He flipped the phone open as he walked toward the door. "Hardy." The door closed behind him.

Joe leaned back in his chair and tilted his head to one side. "So, any other questions?"

The detective glared at him. Without moving her eyes, she reached into the pocket of her blazer and brought out the notebook she had been carrying the day before, this time with the pen clipped to the coil binding it together. She let the book sit on the table for a moment before opening it, flicking her gaze down at the pages as the turned them. When she had found what it was she had been looking for, she cleared her throat.

"How did you come to work for the Michaels Gallery, Mr. Hardy?"

 _Just answer the questions asked_ , Joe thought. _That's what Frank wanted me to do yesterday, so that's what I'll do._

He shrugged. "The usual way. They called, we met, they hired us."

Rodriguez scribbled something on the page. "Us?"

" _Us._ " He let out a breath. "Me and my brother."

"But you were the only one at the gallery on Thursday night." There was an edge to her words Joe didn't like.

He took a breath and let it out slowly, enjoying watching the detective's jaw starting to clench as she waited for his response. "That's right," he finally said. "I was there alone."

Her nostrils flared. "And your brother was where?"

Joe flashed a grin at her. "No clue. You'll have to ask him." He scratched his chin with one finger. "Although, he might not be able to tell you since it's probably classified." He knew he was baiting her, not following Frank's advice, but he simply couldn't help himself.

"And you expect me to believe that?" She slammed the pen down on the table, and Joe shrugged.

As he opened his mouth to respond, the door opened, and Frank walked back into the room, his eyes still on the screen of his phone.

"It was Flunitrazepam." Frank snapped the phone closed and slid it back into his pocket before looking up. "What?"

Rodriguez's eyes narrowed. "And just how did you get that information so quickly?"

"I called in some favors." Frank raised an eyebrow. "Does it matter? We know for sure Joe was attacked."

"And just how do I know your information is reliable?"

"Guess what, 'bro? The detective thinks we might have set up the attack," Joe said, unable to keep a smirk out of the words. "That we were in on the theft together."

"Really?" Frank regarded her with eyes like frozen stones. "Do you find the lab at Quantico unreliable, Detective?"

"You have connections at Quantico?" The woman's tone expressed complete disbelief.

Frank stared at her for a long moment, his jaw clenched, then he rattled off a phone number.

"You can call that for verification of my credentials," he said. "As well as confirmation of my whereabouts for the last few weeks." He turned to Joe. "I think we're done here." As he reached for the doorknob, he looked back at the detective. "In case you didn't get that, you can just call the local office of the FBI and ask for Special Agent Kara Malone. She'll fill you in on my _connections_." He swept through the door.

Joe pushed his chair back from the table, scraping the legs against the floor with a metallic growl, glaring at the woman on the other side of the table as he stood. "I'd say this was fun, Detective, but really, it wasn't. A word of advice? Look somewhere else for your prime suspects. It wasn't us." He walked out the door without looking back.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

After the precinct door closed behind him, Joe managed to wait a full ten seconds before grabbing Frank's arm. "They're sure?"

Frank nodded, his face still an arctic landscape. "They ran the test twice."

Joe shook his head. "I don't understand how they got the results so fast."

"Oh, that… I had someone from the agency contact the hospital. They overnighted the samples and ran them as soon as they got there," Frank said. "Like I said, I called in some favors."

"So, it was an inside job then. Great." His voice was wooden.

Frank stopped, watching as Joe walked past him, the coldness in his eyes thawing slightly at his brother's tone and demeanor. He stood for a moment, then strode forward.

"Joe," he said, placing a hand on Joe's shoulder, "are you okay?"

"I'm fine," he answered, tension radiating off of him in waves.

"No, you're not." Frank let out a breath. "Talk to me."

Joe snorted and turned around. His eyes glittered like frozen water, and the tips of his ears were bright red. "I don't like being played for a fool," he said through his teeth. "Someone hired us specifically to set us – _me_ – up to take the fall for this, and I don't appreciate it."

Frank nodded. "The evidence certainly points in that direction." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Now we need to figure out how we can get in there to find out who that was."

"What?" Joe's mouth dropped open. "'Bro, how the hell do we manage that?" He waved a hand at the police station's front door. "The cops think it was me! I don't think they're going to be all that interested in sharing their findings with us. And I'm guessing the gallery won't want me within twenty feet of the premises." He snorted. "Wouldn't surprise me if they already have a restraining order in process."

"All valid points," Frank said, raising an eyebrow at him, "and they probably do. Have a restraining order in process."

Joe let out a breath, the color in his ears fading slightly. "You're not helping. You know that, right?"

"But they don't know me."

Joe's head snapped up. "Wait… Are you saying?"

Frank tilted his head to one side, his brown eyes glinting. "I think it's time to call in some more favors."

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Two days later, the brothers sat in Frank's office, waiting for their guest to arrive.

"Are you sure about this, 'bro?" Joe was perched on the edge of one of the chairs set out in front of Frank's desk, his right leg bouncing up and down in a frantic rhythm, a pencil tapping on his left thigh. "I mean, what if he says no?"

"I'm pretty sure he won't," Frank said. "It's not like we've asked for this before. Or plan on doing it again. Ever." He sighed and took a long pull from his coffee cup. "I just can't think of any other way to get what we need."

The door to Frank's office opened, and an older woman with short dark hair stuck her head in, the bright flower pattern of her shirt contrasting with the plain and somewhat severe frames of her glasses.

Frank looked up. "Is he here, Patricia?"

"Not yet, Mr. Hardy… Frank." The woman's lips were pressed together. "Can I come in?"

Joe stood and waved her into the office, holding out a chair for her before seating himself back down. "Of course. Is something wrong?"

"Several newspapers have called," she said. "I've tried telling them 'no comment' but they're pretty persistent."

"Pushy, you mean," Joe said, running a hand through his hair. "This will _not_ be good for business..."

"Hang up on them if you need to," Frank said. "We'll have to figure out what to do if they start coming by. Or camping out." He shook his head.

The office manager wrung her hands in her lap. "And this probably isn't a good time to say this, but I am going to have to tender my resignation."

Both brothers stared at her.

"It's not because of this," she said, looking down at the floor. "My mother's health has taken a turn for the worse."

Frank nodded. "You mentioned when you started here that you were worried about her. Did something happen?"

Her shoulders slumped. "She had another fall. My brother has children in college and can't take more time off to go out to Arizona to help her, so I'm going to move out there so she's not alone."

Joe jumped to his feet. "Of course, we completely understand." He reached down to hug the woman. "We'll miss you."

"How quickly do you need to go?" Frank's voice was subdued.

"I can give you the standard two weeks' notice..."

There was something in her voice that made Frank sharpen his gaze. "Patricia, how bad was her fall?"

Her face crumpled. "She broke her left hip. And her elbow." She took a breath. "She's in the hospital right now. They're trying to find a rehab facility that can take her once the surgery is done." She stifled a sob as Joe tightened his arm around her shoulders.

Frank reached into his desk and pulled something out of a drawer. Joe looked over the edge of the open laptop and saw it was the business checkbook. He nodded in approval at the amount he saw his brother writing.

The sound of the paper being torn from the ledger made Patricia look up just in time to see Frank holding the check out. "Take the two weeks to make whatever arrangements you need to so you can go to her. We'll manage without you, but Joe's right, we'll miss you."

Her eyes widened when she saw the amount written on the small piece of paper. "Frank, this is far more than I'm owed..."

"Consider it combat pay," Joe said, squeezing her around the shoulders again.

Frank nodded. "And let us know when you get settled and how your mom is doing."

Patricia wiped her eyes. "Thank you. I'll miss you boys. This job has certainly kept me on my toes." A smile cracked at her lips. "Which is a neat trick for an old woman like me."

"You're younger than I am," Joe said, flashing her a brilliant smile.

"Why don't you take the rest of the day to get started on what you need to do," Frank said. "And, Patricia, thank you for everything."

When they heard the outer office door shut, Joe sat back down in his chair. "Things come in threes, right? I can't wait to see what the last one is."

"The last one what?" asked a voice from the door.

Both brothers looked up to see Fenton Hardy standing in the doorway.

"Dad," Joe said, reaching a hand up to his father, "are we glad to see you!"

"I'm glad to see you, too, son." Fenton ignored the hand and leaned over his younger son's chair, giving him a quick hug around the shoulders. "But you didn't answer my question, the last one what? And why is your office manager crying?"

Frank let his face fall into his palms and exhaled. "It's a long story. Have a seat. This might take a while."


	5. Chapter 5

Thanks to Paulina Ann, sm2003495, Caranath, max2013, EvergreenDreamweaver, Cherylann Rivers, hlahabibty, BMSH, Xenitha, and all those who read but didn't review. Now comes the waiting. This is as much of the story as I had written and ready for publication. I have the outline (mostly) done and promise to get chapters up as soon as RL allows for it. Enjoy!

Note: I realized I had posted this chapter with some text from an earlier draft, so I deleted and re-posted with the correct text. Should make a little more sense in some places now. – Leya

 **Chapter 5**

When they finished their respective parts of the story, Frank watched, hand clasped together as their father let out a breath and rubbed a hand across his forehead.

"You're sure it was an inside job?" Fenton's words were directed at Joe, but his eyes flickered back and forth between his sons.

Joe snorted. "Unless someone got really lucky and just happened to roofie all the soda in the gallery's office. You know, just in case."

Frank's head snapped up. "You had a soda? You said you didn't remember anything after going to get a chair."

"I don't." Joe shook his head. "There was something..." His voice trailed off, and his left leg started bouncing rhythmically on the floor, his heel making a staccato beat on the tiles. "My shirt," he said. "There was something on the hem. Smelled like cola."

Fenton nodded. "Makes sense," he said, his deep voice somber. "They would have had to introduce the drug to you somehow." He tilted his head to one side, squinting at Joe's arms. "I'm sure the hospital would have asked if they had seen any puncture marks on you."

"They certainly did a thorough enough examination," Joe muttered.

"And you do tend to drink soda if you're going to be up late," Frank said, taking a pull from his coffee mug. He stretched and looked at their father. "The issue now is how we find out what happened."

The elder Hardy cleared his throat. "And that's why I'm here? To find out what happened?"

"No!" Joe yelled, head snapping up. "Dad, what do you take us for?"

Frank swallowed with a loud gulp, startled by Joe's outburst and spluttering as some of his coffee went down the wrong pipe. He waved his hands around, coughing and gasping for breath.

"Joe… I..." he choked out. "Hold... on..."

The few seconds it took for Frank's breathing to normalize felt like years.

 _How can Dad think we'd ask that?_ Joe clamped his jaw shut, grinding his teeth together in an effort to keep all the words running through his head safely locked inside.

Finally, Frank inhaled a shaky breath and exhaled without wheezing.

"No," he croaked out, his voice sounding like sandpaper. "Of course not. The museum hired another PI to handle the security while the police investigate the theft. We want you to introduce us to him."

Fenton's eyebrows lifted, his eyes widening in surprise.

"Son, I don't even know..."

Frank's voice cut across his words. "It's Carmine Esposito."

"Carmine?" Fenton's voice rose. "How did you find this out?"

"One of the agents in Kara's office has a cousin who's in security. He went to the gallery to see if they needed anyone, and one of the office people told him they'd hired someone. Didn't take him too long to find out who."

"Carmine Esposito..." Fenton brushed a hand through his hair. "That's a name I haven't heard in years. He left the force?"

"About two years ago," Frank said. "Got his license a bit before we did."

"You saved his life, Dad." Joe said, his left leg starting to bounce. "He's bound to remember you."

Fenton waved a hand. "It was a long time ago, Joe. And I'm sure he's had other partners since then who have done the same or more."

Joe's face fell.

"But," their father continued, looking him full in the face, "I'll give him a call." He turned back to Frank. "What's your plan, son?"

A glint appeared in Frank's brown eyes. "I think I'll keep that under wraps for right now, Dad." He coughed again. "That way you have plausible deniability."

Fenton chuckled. "Plausible deniability? Why do I suddenly feel like the two of you are ten and eleven again and asking me about your Aunt Gertrude's holiday cookie baking schedule?"

Frank's expression darkened. "Same principle. The stakes are just a bit higher this time. This time it's our reputations on the line."

Joe nodded in agreement. "And jail time for me if we can't solve this." He shook his head. "I'm pretty sure Detective Rodriguez isn't looking to prove my innocence on this one. More likely she's looking for something to show I did it."

"Agreed," Frank said. "And we want to protect your reputation as well, Dad. Or at least as much as we can. If this goes belly-up..."

"You two are more important to me than my reputation," Fenton interrupted.

"We know, Dad," Joe said, "But we need to fix this ourselves." He started tapping his fingers against his thigh. "And, you know, hopefully keep us all in business."

Their father nodded. "I can respect that." He cleared his throat. "But if you find yourselves in over your head..."

"We'll call for back-up," Frank said.

Fenton nodded. "Well then, I suppose I should go track down Carmine's phone number. I'll put him in touch with you as soon as I've spoken to him."

The younger men nodded.

"Okay, so what do I tell your mother when she asks why you called me out here?" Fenton shifted his gaze from one son to the other.

"Just tell her we needed some advice from our father," Frank said. "It won't be a lie, but it will also keep her from worrying."

The older man barked out a laugh. "Keep her from worrying? You boys have been out of the house too long. Nothing will ever keep your mother from worrying about you." His expression grew serious again. "That said, I'll do what I can."

"Thanks, Dad," Frank said, standing and walking over to stand next to Joe. "We'll let you know what happens."

"Or," Joe said, "you'll read about my arrest on the front page of the Bayport Times." He grimaced. "I'm kinda hoping that won't happen, though."

Fenton nodded grimly. "That would perhaps be a less-than-ideal outcome." He stood and started moving toward the door. "I'll let you know what Carmine says." He cocked his head to one side. "One last thing before I go, though. You didn't answer my original questions. The last one what? And what did you do your office manager to make her cry? I thought you liked this one."

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Carmine Esposito was thrilled to hear from his old partner and arranged a sit-down at a coffee shop a few blocks from his apartment in Queens.

"It'd be better if there wasn't any record of us meeting at your office or something," he said when Frank spoke to him from the phone in his father's hotel room. "I got a connection with your dad from the force, but I don't know you guys from Adam. Better safe than sorry, right?"

The brothers got there a few minutes early, got drinks, and sat down. To keep himself a bit more inconspicuous, Joe wore a Yankees baseball cap pulled low over his forehead along with jeans and a t-shirt. Frank, to his surprise, had donned khakis, a button-down shirt with a bow-tie, and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses.

Joe waved a hand at his brother's outfit. "This isn't really… casual," he said after a few seconds trying to come up with a better word. "You look like Clark Kent about to disappear into a phone booth."

"No," Frank corrected him. "I look like a hipster in a coffee shop." He took a sip from the mug in his hand. "Which, right now, is what I am."

Joe's retort was cut off by the appearance of a short, barrel-chested man with dark curly hair and glasses perched on his forehead. He wore jeans and a white v-neck t-shirt. Around his neck was a thick gold chain with what looked like a gold horn dangling into his chest hair. He stared open-mouthed at Frank.

"Jesus, put you in uniform, and you look just like your father did at this age." He turned a chair around and sat down folding his arms on the back. "You gotta be Frank, yeah?"

Frank nodded. "Thanks for agreeing to meet with us Mr. Esposito."

"Carmine," the man said. "I don't like to stand on ceremony." He flashed a grin at them. "Besides, if it wasn't for your father, I wouldn't be here talking to you right now. So, it was you two on the job?"

"Just me," Joe said. "Frank talked to them on the phone early on, but I was the one who did the job."

The older man looked puzzled for a second. "I thought you two always worked together?"

Joe opened his mouth to answer, but Frank beat him to it.

"I was on another job," he said. "It was out of town, so Joe was handling it solo."

Esposito nodded and turned to Joe. "You got the blueprints?"

Joe pulled some folded up pieces of paper from his pocket and handed them to the older man.

Esposito sucked on his teeth as he scanned the pages. "Exactly where I would have put cameras. You do good work." He folded the pages and handed them back to Joe. "So, what happened?"

Frank gave him the abbreviated version with Joe filling in details. When they finished, the expression on the detective's face was grim.

"Sounds to me like an inside job," he said, a muscle in his neck twitching.

Joe nodded vehemently.

"I didn't get a real good feeling from them when I went in to talk to them. Spidey-sense and all, but..."

"A client's a client, right?" Frank raised an eyebrow at him.

The man laughed. "Now you sound like your father, too." The grin fell from his face. "But, yeah, pretty much. It's not that I need the money. Pension from the force is good, but I can't not work. You know?" He watched as the brothers both nodded. "So, what is it I can do for you fellas?"

Joe flashed him a smile. "Well, actually, we were wondering if you might be interested in taking on an apprentice?"

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Liz Callahan was not having a good week. Again. The previous week had ended with finding the cute PI she was supposed to go out with Friday night dead in the main gallery with all the art having been stolen.

 _Well, not dead, but certainly not in any condition to go out for dinner. Or anything else for that matter_ , she thought wistfully, her pulse racing as she thought of his wide smile, brilliant blue eyes, and very broad shoulders.

This week had started with computer problems. And coffee maker problems. And gallery manager problems. Turning the electronics off and on like they suggested on that weird British TV show her roommate insisted on watching hadn't worked any of the four times she tried it, and as much as she wished Mr. von Ormond had an off switch, he didn't. Sighing, she just tried to ignore the temper tantrum he was building up to and called the tech support company they contracted with hoping they could send someone over quickly.

Within minutes, she was startled to hear a loud banging at the front door. Standing on her tiptoes, she moved the pulled shade a few inches to the side to see a tall dark-haired man standing with his back to the door. She turned the lock and opened the door a few inches.

The man turned around. His hair was curlier than it had looked from the back, he had a neatly groomed mustache, and wore aviator sunglasses. He wore dark chinos, a black leather racing jacket, and a white shirt button-down shirt open at the collar. A gold chain around his neck fell below the buttoned placket.

She swallowed hard.

He was so tall she had to look up to see his face and good looking despite a fading scar running down the right side of his face.

"Are you the tech guy?" She managed to speak the words despite the fact that her breath had cut out when he turned around.

"Tech guy? No," he said, smiling at her. "I'm lookin' for Carmine Esposito. Is this the right place?"

"Carmine?" Her voice went up a register on the second syllable. She cleared her throat and swallowed. "Yeah. He's here. Come on in." She pushed the door open for him and moved out of the way.

Once he was inside, she slammed the bolt back into place then smiled up at him.

"Right this way." Liz turned and started moving toward the gallery floor, making sure to emphasize the swinging of her hips as she walked and thanking her lucky stars she had done laundry over the weekend and was wearing a tailored skirt and a dressy blouse instead of ripped jeans and a van Gogh t-shirt.

 _I'_ _ve got to_ _find out his name_ , she thought. _And maybe give him my number._

"Would you like some coffee?" she asked. Then her face fell. "Oh, that's right. The coffeemaker's not working."

"S'okay," he said. "I'm good."

Liz suddenly felt very warm.

"Paulie? Where've you been? I've been waitin' for you!" The detective was standing, holding a ladder and looking at the ceiling.

The cute guy ran a hand across his mustache. "I got here as quick as I could. And it's Paul now, not Paulie. I'm not five anymore."

The short, older detective waved his hand. "Whatever." He shook his head, a small smile on his face. "Miss Callahan, my nephew _Paul_ Sorrento. He works with me. Sorry if he's been imposing on your time, Miss Callahan." He shot a look at the younger man. "And now that you're finally here, I need you to look at something."

The younger man smiled down at Liz and winked at her. "If your coffeemaker's still not workin' later, maybe you and me could go somewhere and get some."

The detective let out a breath. "Paul, do the flirting thing later, capiche?"

A blush spread over Liz's cheeks. "That would be great," she squeaked. "I mean, I'd like that. Okay." She backed away toward the office, shutting the door behind her.

Carmine looked at the closed door, glaring at his companion. Then he turned his back toward the office and smiled. "I thought it was your brother who was the ladies' man," he said. "Least that was what your father told me as you boys were growing up."

Frank lifted a hand to scratch at his lip under the false mustache. "I've watched him enough to know what to do," he said. "And she was one of the ones who found Joe. I'd like to get her version of what happened."

The older man nodded. "So, you don't just look like your father. You think like him, too. Good." He scanned the room. "What can you tell me about the set up you used?"

"Wireless security cameras set at specific points around the area focusing on the art. One pointed at the door, another at the office, and one more aimed at the storage area." Frank waved around the room, then stopped, looking at the ceiling with a puzzled expression.

None of the little white-domed cameras were there.

Carmine shrugged his shoulders. "Now you see why I'm askin'. What's the likelihood that a thief would take the time to find every single camera and remove them before stealin' anything?"

"Son of a..." Frank raked a hand through his hair, making the curls bounce up. "Well, at least we know for sure it was an inside job." He let out a breath. "Now we just have to find out who on the inside did it."


	6. Chapter 6

Thanks to Paulina Ann, Xenitha, max2013, EvergreenDreamweaver, Caranath, hlahabibty, Cherylann Rivers, Guest, BMSH, Barb, Guest2, WindGemini, Man UTD, Joe hardy the tenage detective, SnowPrincess88, Interesting, and everyone who read and enjoyed the last chapter. RL has been rearing its ugly head so updates have been and will continue to be slow. I can promise not to abandon the story, though, so you will all (eventually) get to find out what happens! :) - Leya

 **Chapter** **6**

Joe sat at his desk, sliding his computer keyboard back and forth across the top of his desk like an air hockey puck and listened with great enjoyment to the silence blanketing the office.

From the moment he had walked in the door, the phone had been ringing off the hook with calls coming in from one reporter after another looking for a quote or chasing rumors. The first few he picked up at the reception desk, before deciding the chair in his office was more comfortable.

He missed a few calls while trying to figure out how to pick up the calls from the front at his desk, and felt pretty good about himself once he figured it out. For a while. Most of the calls he answered, were from reporters who accepted his repeated, "No comment. It's an ongoing police investigation," before giving up, thanking him, and ending the call.

The one he hung up on had been much less accommodating.

In the ten or so minutes the man had been on the phone, Joe had managed to speak for maybe thirty seconds. Give or take.

 _Most of which was_ _at the end when I_ _telling him where to go_ , Joe thought, the tapping on his leg growing more agitated. _I wish Patricia was still here._ _She was so much better at this than me._

That was when he had gone to each phone in the office and turned off the ringers, letting all the calls go to the answering machine.

The silence this produced provided a sense of great satisfaction. For about five minutes. Right up until he realized if the reporters couldn't get through, then neither could any new potential clients.

 _If we get any new clients with all this going on_ , he thought.

He stilled the keyboard and started drumming his fingers on the desk for a minute before shoving his chair back and stomping over the reception area. For a moment he stood, a frown etched on his face, looking at the empty chair. The frown deepened into a scowl as he stared at the desk, cleared of the pictures and personal items that had been there only a few days before, then relaxed.

 _I'll delete this batch of messages, then call and see how she's doing. And her mom._

With a sigh, he sat down and rifled through the desk to find paper and a pencil, then turned to the machine, took a deep breath, and pushed the play button.

In the few minutes he had turned the ringers off, five calls had already come in and were waiting to be answered.

The first one was a hang-up, which brought a smile to his face. The second was a reporter – probably the first caller trying again after a reaming out from his editor – demanding a quote and threatening an unfavorable story if he didn't get one.

 _Because that's going to happen_ , Joe thought. _Idiot left a voicemail message._ He hit 'skip' instead of 'delete' for that one so he could figure out what paper it was and call the editor to let him – _Or her_ – know what kind of tactics the reporter was using.

The third message was a long, annoyed breath followed by a loud crash as the handset on the other end of the line met the phone's base. He figured it was most likely the same guy calling back to see if he could catch Joe unawares.

 _Not happening, pa_ _l_ , he thought as he deleted that one, too.

There was a pause at the beginning of the fourth message, then a hacking cough.

"Frank? Joe?… It's Liz." The voice was female, tentative and raspy.

Joe started, thinking for a moment it was Liz from the art gallery calling to see how he was doing, before realizing she didn't know Frank, and the voice wasn't right. He turned his attention back to the words coming from the recorder.

"… your side of the story." There was more coughing. "Sorry, I'm home with the flu. Dad would freak if he knew I was working from bed. He still tends to think of me more as his baby then as one of his beat reporters."

Joe's eyes widened. Not Liz Callahan. Liz _Webling._

A loud sneeze sounded through the line., pulling his attention back to the call.

"Ah, geez, sorry about that," Liz's voice said. "Hold on."

He heard the sound of tissues being pulled from a box, then a loud honking noise and some sniffling.

"Good thing you guys are my friends." Another sniff. "Anyway, the offer stands." There was a pause. "You might just want to do it over the phone rather than exposing yourself to my creeping crud. Let me know. Bye."

Joe skipped the last message, and reached out for the phone's handset, closing his eyes for a moment as he focused on trying to remember if Liz had moved out of her parents' house after getting the job at the paper. Finally, he shrugged and just dialed the Webling's house, figuring if nothing else whoever answered the phone could give him Liz's number.

It rang three times before a muffled voice said, "Hello?" followed by a loud sneeze.

"Liz, it's Joe. Hey, have you seen a doctor about that?"

"Joe!" Liz's voice squeaked out. "Yeah. Fluids, rest, blah, blah, blah." She sneezed again. "Hold on, I have to..." There was a loud gulping noise, then "… take a drink of tea. Okay, I should be good for a few minutes now."

"Are you sure you're all right?" Joe couldn't keep the concern from his voice. In the whole time he had known Liz, she had never been sick. Or at least not this sick.

There was a breath. "Meh. All that good health in high school caught up with me. It really _is_ just the flu. Which, can I say, sucks." She paused, her voice softer when she continued. "But honestly, Joe, I should probably be the one asking you that question."

Joe sighed. "Back at you with the meh. How'd you find out?"

"Dad called this morning. Some of the city reporters have been calling the paper for background information on you." She sniffed then snorted. "They were digging for dirt. He enjoyed bursting their bubbles."

"Good." Joe felt a particular satisfaction about that. "I'd say I'm crushed, but..."

"Yeah, I get it." There was some more coughing. "Okay, well, I just wanted to check and make sure you were okay."

"And maybe get a story?" He allowed the smile on his face to come out in his voice.

Liz laughed. "I knew I couldn't pull one over on you. You know me so well, Joe Hardy."

"Right now, it's an ongoing investigation, so I can't say much," he said. "But…"

"I get an exclusive once it's not?" Her voice cracked on the last word.

This time it was Joe who laughed. "You know, Liz, that could probably be arranged."

"Excellent!"

She sneezed one more time, and Joe felt a pang of guilt for keeping her on the phone.

"Liz, you should go get some rest. I'll call you once this is all done," he said. "Or maybe I'll take a trip home and take you for dinner."

"I'm tired of rest." She sighed. "But I do feel moderately terrible. Dinner would be great, though. Once I'm healthy again." Her voice was definitely fading. "Is there anything I can do in the meantime?"

Joe thought for a second, then allowed a grin to cover his face. "Actually there is. I need the name of a managing editor out here. Think you can get that for me if I send you the reporter's name?"

"Definitely. Shoot me an email, and I'll look into it. Right after I take another nap."

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

"Knock, knock." Frank banged his knuckles on the edge of the open office door and watched as Liz started in her chair before covering the motion of her arm by smoothing her hair.

"Paul," she squeaked, leaning forward in her seat to place her elbows on the desk, "what can I do for you?"

He cocked his head to one side and gave her a wide smile. "I was thinkin' it's more like what I can do for you," he said. "Your coffeemaker's still kaput, right?"

She let out a long breath. "Yes."

"So, how's about you and me go and grab some coffee and maybe some lunch?" He raised an eyebrow at her. "Are you free for lunch?"

She practically purred at his words.

"As a matter of fact, I am." She leaned over to open a drawer in her desk and pulled out a purse. "Just let me go tell Mr. von Ormond I'm leaving."

Frank nodded, and she sashayed over to the gallery manager's office. He tried to catch a glimpse of the man as the door opened, but all he could see was the corner of a desk. Liz disappeared inside and shut the door behind her as he waited, trying not to grind his teeth in frustration.

Other than the first few phone calls, he hadn't dealt with the gallery manager at all, and he wanted a visual so he could try to get a read on the man's personality.

A second or two later, Liz reappeared, the door shutting behind her as she stepped back into the room. She stopped at a coat rack to grab a light jacket, then smiled up at him.

"Let's go!" she said, a gleam in her eyes as she looked up at him.

He held out an arm to her, and as she molded herself against his side, he shook his head internally, questioning yet again his brother's taste in women. He managed to make light small talk as he led her to a coffee shop down the block. While the coffee wasn't as good as what he could get at his local cafe, it was adequate for what Paul Sorrento would probably drink, and it had a lunch counter. He was grateful that they had a few minutes silence while perusing the menu as he was running out of inconsequential things to say.

 _I have no idea how Joe does this_ , he thought. _Charming women_ _i_ _s definitely more up his alley._

He pulled a chair out for her at a small, round table in front of one of the windows. The look of astonishment on her face at this small courtesy made her look younger and much less predatory, and he found himself wondering if this was what Joe had seen in her.

"So, Liz, how long have you been working at the gallery?" He smiled at her as he spoke, one hand fingering the gold chain around his neck.

Her face fell. "Is this why you asked me to lunch? To interview me?"

Frank cursed internally. _Crap. Not a good opening line._

He tilted his head to one side. "Of course not. But if we combine business with pleasure…" He reached across the table and took one of her hands.

"Then you get to submit it as an expense," she said, understanding in her eyes. "Smart as well as good looking. Wow. I hit the jackpot." She squeezed his hand. "About two years. Since I got out of school."

"Let me guess… Art History?" Frank grinned at her.

Liz shook her head. "Everybody says that, and I don't know why…" Her voice trailed off, then she shook her head and refocused her attention on Frank. "No. Business management."

"Really?" Frank blinked as he tried to mask the astonishment he felt. "That's impressive."

"Gallery management isn't what I wanted to get into, but it's turned out to be pretty interesting." She tossed her hair over her shoulder. "And no one cares if I come into work wearing jeans and t-shirt every now and then. So it works out." She shrugged. "How long have you been working with your uncle?"

"Off and on for a year or so," he said. "I want to be a trooper rather than an independent, though. I start at the Massachusetts State Police academy in the fall."

Her face fell. "Massachusetts?"

Frank nodded, sincerity radiating from every pore. "I want to do this without relying on the family. We got cops goin' back generations, and I don't want people treating me different because of who I'm related to. You know?"

"Oh." She slid her hand out from his and pushed her hair off her shoulders. "That's pretty noble. So, what do you want to know?" Her voice became much more businesslike.

"Mostly what happened to the last guy you hired. Uncle Carmine wasn't able to get a lotta detail, and I'd like to make sure whatever it was doesn't happen to us."

"Oh, it was awful. I thought he was dead when I came in that morning." Liz shivered, but her eyes lit up. "He came in the night before the opening to guard the art…."

"Was it vaulable?"

"The art?" Liz looked surprised. "Well..." She pursed her lips. "It was priced high, but to me it didn't look like much. I'm not really into art all that much, so I can't tell if it was good or not, but I thought it looked like a bunch of kids' school projects." She shrugged. "To each his own, right?"

Frank nodded. "Sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt."

"It's okay. Well, he showed up about ten minutes before we closed. We talked a bit about where we were going to have dinner the next night." Her head jerked up, and a blush covered her cheeks. "I mean… we had talked about meeting up after the opening, but it wasn't..."

"Good looking guy, eh?" He smiled. "Not like Carmine?"

Liz's blush deepened. "You could say that… Anyway, he walked around for a few minutes. I guess he was making sure the cameras were pointed where he wanted them. Then I left."

"What happened in the morning?" He went to grab his coffee and take a sip, realized his hands were trembling, and leaned forward, clasping them together in his lap.

"It was awful." Liz took a sip of water. "I was the first one there. I don't know why. Mr. von Ormond was supposed to be there early. I come in late on the days we have openings, so I wasn't there until after nine-thirty." Her eyes took on a distant look. "When I got there, all the lights were off. I turned them on, and the art was gone. And when I went further into the room, he was… he was..." She closed her eyes.

"Had he been attacked?" Frank wanted to kick himself for making her go through this.

 _But I have to know_ , he thought.

"No," she said, opening her eyes and looking down at her plate. "At least I don't think so. He was tied to a chair. One of the office chairs. And he was unconscious. I wasn't sure he was breathing. I think I screamed." She looked up. "That was when Mr. von Ormond came in. He brought me into the office and made me some coffee."

Frank shook his head. Something didn't add up. "After he called the police?"

"What? No. Before. He handed me some coffee then called 9-1-1." Her eyes grew wide. "That can't be right..."

"Did you notice anything else?" Anger was bubbling up in his chest, and it was a struggle to keep his voice steady. "Was the room completely empty?"

She nodded. "Except for him and the chair."

Frank ground his teeth together. Everything was pointing to an inside job. _An inside job that is revolving around Mr. von Ormond..._

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

It wasn't until Joe got back from lunch that he remembered he hadn't listened to the last message on the answering machine. Talking with Liz, and realizing there were people out there who knew he wasn't the bad guy in this scenario, had allowed him to calm down enough that he hadn't bothered turning off the ringers again. Picking up the phone to call Patricia to see how she was doing, update her on what was happening with the agency, and reassure her that he had not burned the office down since she had left, also helped as it kept the main office line busy for another half-hour or so.

The blissfully phone call free remainder of the time before his tummy informed him it was time to eat again had been taken up going over details of other cases he and Frank had been working and getting the attendant reports started.

As he walked back in the office, stomach full and happy from his burger and fries, the blinking light from the answering machine caught his attention. He growled until he remembered he had missed one call, the one after Liz's message.

He looked longingly at his office, then let out a long breath before walking over to the machine and pressing the play button.

 _At least it will make the blinking light go off_ , he thought, pleased to see there didn't seem to be any messages other than this one to listen to. _Good. I want to be done answering questions for a while._

He skipped over the message from the reporter whose name was already on the way to Liz's inbox , smirking to himself as he did so, and waited for the last one to start.

"Um… hello?"

The voice was male and very deep. There was the sound of a throat clearing, then a pause.

"Okay, uh, the employment agency told me to call this number and ask for Frank or Joe. It's about the receptionist opening." The caller took a breath, then said, "My name's Calvin O'Brien." He took another breath, then recited a phone number. "If you're still looking for someone, I'd appreciate a call. Thanks. If not, well, thanks anyway." The last few words were tinged with a smile.

Joe sighed, then listened to the message again, this time remembering to grab the pencil and paper so he could scribble down the man's name and number. He hadn't expected the employment agency to start sending applicants to them quite so quickly.

 _At least not under the current circumstances,_ " he thought, a grimace covering his face.

He sighed again, wishing Frank was here to handle this part, then curled his fingers around the handset, lifted it to his ear, and dialed the number he had written.

"Calvin? Joe Hardy. Thanks for calling. The position is still open." He decided against saying there hadn't been any other applicants. "Would you be interested in coming in for an interview?"

The deep voice rumbled an affirmative.

"Great. I always say no time like the present." Joe glanced at his watch. It was a little after one. "Would three o'clock work?"

"Three o'clock _today_?"

Joe grinned at the note of surprise in the man's voice. "Like I said, no time like the present."

There was a shuffling of paper from the other end of the line, then one word. "Sure."

"All right," Joe said. "I will see you then." He rattled off the address, then hung up the phone, a smile starting to form on his lips.

Then the phone rang.

The smile disappeared. Joe glared at it, turned the ringer off, and stomped to his office, making sure to slam the door behind him.


	7. Chapter 7

Apologies for the long delay in posting. I was sick for a few months and was pretty much limited in my ability to function during that time; creative thinking was more than I could do. Then, when I finally got better, writer's block hit. Hard. So, while it has taken longer than I wanted, the next chapter is finally here…

Thanks to Paulina Ann, zenfrodo, max2013, sm2003495, BMSH, hlahabibty, MAN UTD, Caranath, EvergreenDreamweaver, FanHB08, Nikolettelime, Xenitha, Barb, Liana Jane, Amarantheine, and everyone who read and enjoyed.

 **Chapter 7**

About ten minutes after having turned the ringer off, Joe gave in and turned it back on. While quiet phones meant not having to deal with reporters asking questions he couldn't answer, it also meant no potential clients could get through.

 _And_ _we need clients. I_ _f we have no clients, interviewing a new office person would be a waste of time_ , he thought.

He stared at the phone willing it to ring and jumped about two feet in the air when it actually did.

"Hardy Investigations," he said, gulping in a breath. "How may we help you?"

It was neither a client, nor a reporter but instead another applicant from the employment agency.

This one was female with an only-slightly muted New York City accent who said she wold be thrilled to come in for an interview at four-thirty. She thanked him about four times, then finally disconnected just as Joe was about to hang up on her.

Shaking his head, he replaced the handset and was startled again when the phone rang as soon as it hit the cradle with yet another applicant for the position. Between the soft voice and the androgynous name of Harley Jenkins, he wasn't sure if the person was male or female, but the lack of enthusiasm when he, or she, was offered a nine o'clock interview the next day told him most of what he needed to know.

After a much-too-long pause, Harley sighed – Joe could practically hear the accompanying eye-roll through the line – and said "I suppose if that's the only time you have open."

"It is." Joe had to work hard not to snarl the words out. He hated early morning meetings as much as the next person, but nine was not only when the office opened, it was fifteen minutes after the time the office manager would be expected to be there.

"Okay," came the reply, a hint of irked forbearance in the tone that irritated Joe to no end. "I guess I'll see you at nine, then." The connection clicked off.

"And you're welcome," Joe said to the dead air, not bothering to dampen down the sarcasm in the words. He hung up the phone and stared at it for a second, wondering if it was going to ring again. It didn't.

Joe sighed in the silence. Only about a half hour had passed since he had returned from lunch, and Calvin wasn't due to arrive for another hour and a half. He drummed his fingers on his desk a few times, then shrugged. If he was alone in the office, he was going to do things his way. He went into his office, leaving the door open, and turned the radio on his desk to a classic rock station, then he opened one of the drawers and grabbed the file that held the report on gallery's layout and the chart with the schematics of the security system he had set up.

 _There has to be something I'm missing_ , he thought. _Other than the twelve plus hours I was out of it..._

He blew out an annoyed breath, sat down, and opened the file, fully intent on re-reading everything it contained until something important jumped out at him. Time seemed to stand still as he read, line by line, his right hand scribbling notes onto a blank sheet of paper. At some point he noticed an odd knocking sound that didn't match the bass line of the song playing in the background. He glanced up at the radio and shook his head, his eyes moving back toward the spot on the paper where his index finger had stopped. The words blurred, and he lifted a hand to rub his eyes, his gaze falling on the clock as he blinked.

It read 2:45.

The knocking came again, louder this time, just as Joe's brain caught up to his ears, and he realized what it was he was hearing.

 _Whoa. Either he's early, which shows initiative, or it's a prospective client,_ _which would be bad timing_ _._ _Either way I need to move._

He yanked his sweater down to cover the waistband of his pants as he stood, and slammed the file closed over the pages sticking out.

"Be right there!" He strode to the door, his right hand outstretched. "Come on in. I'm…" The words trailed off as he caught his first glimpse of the person on the other side of the door.

It was a kid. A tall, skinny, African-American kid, but a kid, nonetheless. In suit and tie. Standing in a reverse image of Joe with his right hand stuck out in front of him

He registered the look on Joe's face, swallowed, and lowered his hand, the smile on his face growing a little strained. "You're Joe Hardy, right? I'm Calvin O'Brien. We spoke on the phone."

The voice was the same one from the message and the phone call. Deep, like it was coming from the basement of a very tall, very sharp-dressed building.

Joe blinked and waved his hand through the air to indicate the kid should come in. "Calvin. Nice to meet you." He walked into his office, indicated the chair by his desk, then slid into his own. "So, the agency didn't..."

Calvin was seated out several sheets of heavy linen paper, neatly stacked. "Didn't send my resume over. It's happened with them before, so I thought I would come with one prepared for you."

"Yeah… Uh, no… They didn't. Thanks." Joe reached over, took the papers, and pretended to scan their contents.

 _He's here,_ Joe thought with an inward sigh. _I might as well interview him._

He turned over the cover letter and glanced at the resume, his eyes widening.

"You're doing an Associate's in Business Administration?" He hoped his voice didn't betray the surprise he felt.

"Yes, sir. I take all my classes at night, so they won't interfere with the hours the office is open." A small hint of a genuine smile flickered on Calvin's face. "I know you're not supposed to ask, but I'm twenty-one. I went right into the army right after I graduated high school, then went back to school when my initial enlistment was up." He paused. "I'm in the Reserves right now."

Joe kept his eyes glued to the paper so Calvin wouldn't see the relief in them. Even though he looked like a teenager, Calvin actually wasn't much younger than he was. "Good to know. Thanks." He reached into his top drawer and brought out the list of questions he and Frank had come up with for applicants, looked up at Calvin, and launched into the first one.

By the time they were done, Joe had to admit he was impressed. Calvin's answers to all the questions had been more than acceptable, some of them actually quite good. In addition, he had asked Joe some insightful questions about the agency, how it was run, and what was expected of the office manager.

"I've never worked at a detective agency before," he explained. "I'm expecting it's not like they show on the TV." He chuckled, the noise a rumble of thunder in the still air of the office.

"Not really at all." Joe smiled. "There's a lot more filing involved." He indicated the file on his desk, the papers sticking out and thought he saw the other man's eyes widen slightly but decided he must have been mistaken. "Well, Calvin, I want to thank you for coming in. We have a few other applicants, and I'll need to talk to my brother before any hiring decision is made. One of us, probably me, will get back to you in a few days."

Calvin pushed his chair back and held out his hand again, his expression now studiously blank. "Thank you for meeting with me," he said, his voice quieter now. "I.. I look forward to hearing from you."

Joe walked Calvin out, then stopped at the desk, turned the phone's ringer back on, and checked the answering machine. Two more messages had come in, both from other applicants for the office manager job. Sighing, he gathered up the file, slid it into the top drawer of the desk, then started returning the calls.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Frank stood on the ladder, drumming his fingers against the shelf as he stared at the tiny camera he had just attached to the wall. The power light was shining a steady green, but the network light was blinking a dull amber color, generally a sign that all was not well in its world.

He sighed, turned the device off, and unplugged the Ethernet cable from the back. He turned the device around, blew a puff of air in the jack, then pushed the cable back in place before putting it back in place. Crossing his fingers, he pressed the power button and waited, watching as it ran through the start-up process.

The power button lit up like a green beacon, but the network indicator's amber light blinked uncaringly at him.

He swore and climbed back down the ladder, stomping his way over to Carmine.

"Still not cooperatin', eh?" The detective was busy opening boxes containing more of the cameras.

"No," Frank growled. He ran a hand through his hair, feeling a momentary jolt of surprise when he encountered the curls on top of his head. "Can't they just let us use wireless cameras and hook it up to a laptop?"

Carmine shrugged. "This is what they told me to use. And since they're the ones payin' the bill..." His shoulders lifted again. "Seems stupid to me, too, given how not-working these things are."

"Yeah." Frank sighed. "Almost like they don't care about the actual security." He tapped himself on the forehead. "Oh, wait… They don't."

"Your brother find anything out about the insurance yet?" Carmine leaned in closer to Frank and whispered the question.

"Not yet." Frank said, shaking his head. "He's hit a couple of dead ends." He nodded at the slowly growing pile of cameras on the table at Carmine's right. "Just like those. But he's still looking."

The older man laughed. "I'll hit up some of my sources as well. More angles can't hurt."

"Stupid, idiotic, piece of crap!" Liz's voice rang out in the empty space.

Both men turned to face the office.

"Sounds like someone is having the same kind of day we are," Carmine said. "Why don't you go see what's happening."

Frank nodded and sauntered over to lean on the door. "Everything okay in here, Liz?"

"No." The office manager's face looked like a thundercloud. "It's really not."

After their first lunch date, Frank had taken to bringing in coffee each morning for Liz and sitting with her for a few minutes while she drank it. The flirting hadn't subsided much, which still made him a bit uncomfortable, but he found he was growing more impressed with the brain behind the somewhat air-headed facade she wore around the office. Mr. von Ormond might be the manager, but Liz was the one who knew everything that was going on in the gallery.

He looked around. Von Ormond's door was closed with no light showing from the crack where it didn't quite meet the floor.

Liz was standing in front of a computer, one hand on the power button, the other tangled up in her hair.

"I _hate_ this piece of crap!" She glared at the monitor. "The guy was just here fixing it the other day, and now it's not working again, and the whole stupid network is down."

Frank nodded. "That would explain the problem we're havin' with the cameras," he said, pointing out to the larger room. "No network, no juice." He watched as the computer tried to boot up, the flashed the words _No boot device found_ on the monitor. He nodded at the screen. "That's generally not a good sign. Can't you just call the fix-it guy again?"

"No." The word was clipped and more forceful than her usual tone. She raised her eyes to his. "I'm not supposed to say this, but you might want to warn your uncle. We're having cash flow problems. Until we get the insurance money for the stuff that got stolen, I can't even order toilet paper."

"That's… not good." He tugged at his mustache, wrinkling his nose and trying not to sneeze. "Do you want me to take a look at it?"

She blinked at him. "You? But…"

"S'okay," he said, laughing. "I know I don' really look the part, but I'm pretty good with computers. I got another uncle who fixes 'em. I used to work for him in the summers."

 _Say yes_ , he thought. _Say yes._

"Would you mind?" She fluttered her eyelashes at him. "I'd appreciate it so much."

He took a step back, not entirely wanting to know exactly _how_ much. "No prob," he said, smiling and forcing a wide smile on his face. "Anythin' for the lovely lady."

She beamed at him.

Frank unplugged the computer from the wall, unhooked all the cables from the CPU, then slid the box out from under the monitor and sat at the desk in front of the machine. "I'm just gonna take a peak at the inside. See if somethin' came loose."

"Okay," she said. "Let me know if there's anything I can do to help. Although I don't really know anything about computers..." The phone on her desk started ringing. "Oh, I'll be right back."

Frank listened to her conversation for a moment, before turning back to the computer. When he slid the panel off and looked inside, he shook his head in disbelief.

The hard drive was disconnected.

Footsteps behind him told him Liz was done with the phone call and on her way back. Quickly he connected the drive to the motherboard and replaced the cover.

"Nothing you could do?" Liz placed a hand on his shoulder, her voice in his ear.

Frank couldn't help it. He jumped. "Sorry," he said once he got himself settled back in the chair. "You startled me." He blushed a bright red. "Let's plug it back in and give it a whirl."

It booted up perfectly.

"Do me a favor," he said. "Log in and see if it looks all right." He put a fake not of concern in his voice. "I want to make sure I didn' screw anythin' up."

Liz nodded and leaned over to enter the username and password. She scrolled through a few folders, a slight frown growing on her face.

"Sumpthin' wrong?" Frank held his breath.

"Not exactly." She looked puzzled. "A couple things are in the wrong place, and one or two letters I wrote last week aren't there at all..." Her voice trailed off. "But it seems to be working, so thank you." The phone rang again, and she walked back to her desk, her hips swaying as she moved.

Frank regarded her for a long second before heading back out to the gallery. By the time he reached Carmine, the older man was nodding.

"You found somethin'." It wasn't a question.

Frank let out a breath and looked up at the camera, its network light now a steady green. "Someone swapped out the hard drive," he said.


	8. Chapter 8

Thanks to Paulina Ann, Jilsen, max2013, Candylou, EvergreenDreamweaver, hlahabibty, Caranath, sm2003495, BMSH, Xenitha, and everyone who read and enjoyed.

 **Chapter** **8**

Carmine's eyes grew wide. "You sure?"

"A hundred percent?" Frank raked his hand through his hair. "No. Pretty damn? Yes. And it was either done by someone with no clue of how electronics actually work or who ran out of time. Possible both." He let out a breath.

"I'd go with no clue." Carmine shrugged toward the office. "That Liz is the only one who seems to know her way around a computer, but only the software. Not the hardware." One hand lifted and rubbed his chin. "It's lookin' more and more like an inside job."

"I'm not a betting man," Frank said, "but I would be willing to give my last dollar that it's a complete inside job." He sighed, his expression hardening. "Of course, if we don't figure this out and soon, it very well could be my last dollar..."

From the corner of his eye, he saw Liz watching him through the open door, a furrow on her brow. Immediately he relaxed his features into a smile, lifted his right hand in a small wave to her, then turned back to Carmine.

"So," he said, making sure his voice carried, "we can finish up with those cameras now, Uncle."

Carmine waved an arm toward the ladder. "After you, Paulie. I'm here supervising. You get to do the actual dirty work."

"It's _Paul_!" Frank made sure he put just the right note of complaint in his voice before turning and rolling his eyes at Liz.

She giggled, raising a hand to cover her mouth, then waved at him and went back to her desk.

The next two cameras went quickly and easily, the link and power lights coming right up as soon as Frank plugged in the cable. The next one didn't. After checking the main office computer was still on, testing the port in the small router the cameras were attached to, and changing out the cable, Frank finally decided there must be something was wrong with the unit itself.

Knowing there weren't any extra units around – yet more validation of the gallery's financial troubles – he climbed down from the ladder and took the device over to a table, grabbing his penknife from his pocket as he walked.

"What's the problem?" Carmine asked. He listened to Frank's explanation and nodded. "Makes sense. You gonna be a few minutes?" At Frank's answering nod, he smiled. "Then I'm gonna go get some coffee from down the street. You need a refill?"

"No, thanks. I'm good," Frank said, his attention already on the camera in his hand. He gave the older man an absent-minded wave, then selected the thinnest blade on the knife and turned the device so he could use the point to loosen the screws holding the camera together. Once he had them all in a neat pile on the table, he pried the case open and held it in the palm of his left hand. "Let's see what's going on with you, little one," he murmured.

It took a few minutes, but with a little bit of prodding he was able to find the problem. One of the tiny connectors on the motherboard had come loose.

 _Got you,_ he thought, reaching again for the thin-bladed knife. _If I can just nudge you back over there…_

A hand clamped down on his arm.

"Who are you? How did you get in here? What are you doing with that camera?"

The speaker was a man in his mid to late forties, dark hair slicked back off his forehead, his slight frame clothed in a neatly tailored charcoal suit with a contrasting maroon tie. His light brown eyes were narrowed, causing wrinkles to appear on his temples, and his voice was lowered in what he must have thought was a threatening manner.

Frank froze, not wanting to damage the little piece of technology in hand. "I could ask you the same question." He looked down at the hand on his arm. "And I would suggest moving that. Now."

Heels clicked on the hardwood floor, and both men turned toward the noise.

"Mr. von Ormond, I'm glad you're here today." Liz came forward with a steaming mug of coffee. "This is Mr. Sorrento. He's with the new detective agency." Her voice went up on the last few words, making them sound more like a question than a statement.

The man released his grip, shook out his hand, and smoothed down his sleeve before taking the coffee from Liz. He regarded Frank over the rim of the mug as he took a sip. His nose wrinkled. "Not enough milk," he said, his eyes flickering to Liz for a moment.

She muttered an apology, her cheeks flushing red, and Frank could feel ice forming in his veins.

"I wasn't aware there was another person working with Mr. Esposito." The man's voice was thin and a little high-pitched, which was surprising given his height – he was just about eye-level with Frank – and held a very slight accent.

 _German?_ _Makes sense_ _given the last name_ , Frank thought.

He cleared his throat. "Not surprisin' since you haven't actually been here." It took effort to keep his voice in Paul's accent and cadence, and while he managed it, he wasn't able to keep a note of disdain from the words. He saw a brief flash of panic in Liz's eyes and added, "Sir."

The main door to the gallery opened again, and Carmine strode in, sipping something from a white takeaway cup. When he saw von Ormond, he raised a hand in greeting. "Mr. von Ormond. I see you've met my nephew. He's helping me with the camera install." He lowered the hand and placed it on his back. "Ladders ain't always my friend," he said, his eyes twinkling, "so it's useful to have a young, strong back around."

The gallery manager's eyes slid down to the white carapace in Frank's hand. "Camera install?"

Frank nodded. "I was fixin' this one. It didn't wanna connect to the main computer."

He watched as von Ormond's eyes widened, noting the visible effort it took the man not to turn and look through the office door at the main computer.

"Oh… I see. Well..." The man's accent became more pronounced. "My apologies. And thank you." He turned and marched toward the office. "Miss Callahan. When you have a moment, I need to speak to you about… about the next exhibit."

Liz looked up at Frank. "Sorry," she squeaked. "He's not usually this..."

"Asshole-like?"

She stifled a giggle. "I was going to say officious."

Frank shrugged. "Same thing."

"Sometimes, yeah. Thanks." She smiled, then started walking briskly back to the office, her heels clicking a metronome cadence on the floor.

Carmine let out a breath. "You saw what I saw?"

Frank nodded. "Yeah. He was working really hard not to look at that computer. Makes me think I'm going to have get a look at the insides of that box again. Maybe take a peek in his office for the hard drive that was taken out."

"When you gonna do that?" The detective took a sip of his coffee.

"As soon as possible." Frank sighed. "If he's nervous, he might try to do something drastic, and I'd like to keep possible evidence from disappearing."

"You want help?"

"I think it would be better if I do this alone." Frank ran a hand through the curls covering his forehead. "If I'm wrong, I don't want to get you in trouble."

"If you're wrong?" Carmine grinned up at him. "Is _that_ a bet you'd be willing to take?"

Frank barked out a tight laugh. "No. Still not a betting man. But thanks for asking."

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Calvin was settling in nicely, Joe thought as he watched the young man reorganizing the desk in the front part of the office. Sure, he asked a lot of questions, but that was a good thing. While aspects of the work at a detective agency were similar to other offices, there were some things that were rather specialized, and he was pretty sure none of the other candidates would have had the initiative to ask about them.

 _Especially Harley_ , he thought. _Not when they couldn't be bothered to show up to the interview on time –_ he still had no clue, even after an hour-long interview, whether Harley was male or female – _but since I had Calvin up my sleeve, it didn't really matter_ , he decided, bouncing a pencil against the side of his thumb.

"Mr. Hardy?" The deep baritone startled him, and the pencil went flying back over his shoulder.

"Joe," he said, trying to catch his breath. "Mr. Hardy makes me feel old."

Calvin nodded, his expression flat, and Joe couldn't help wondering what was wrong. The man's demeanor had been much more relaxed during the interview, and while his work so far had been excellent, Joe could tell there was something off. He just didn't know what it was.

 _New job jitters, I guess. He'll chill out after he's been here longer_ , he thought, assiduously ignoring the little voice at the back of his mind that insisted there was something else going on. He shook his head and wrenched his attention back to what Calvin was saying.

"… call for you," he said. "He wouldn't give his name. Said it was important."

Joe nodded, the worry dispelling and his mood rising. "Great. I've been waiting for him. Patch it through."

When the phone on his desk rang, Joe snapped up the handset. "Jamie, my man, what have you got for me?"

There was a long pause on the other end of the line.

"Can you not shout through the phone? Someone might hear you." The voice was soft but testy. "You know darn well I'm not supposed to be talking to you." There was another pause. "And it's James."

"Not to me, it's not," Joe said, smiling. He leaned over to scoop up the pencil. "And you know you love me."

A sigh came through the headset. "I don't suppose your brother is available?"

"Nope," Joe said, twirling the pencil through his fingers. "I get you all to myself..."

Another sigh. "Fine. And this is just between us, right?"

"Your name stays out of it," Joe said, nodding. "You have my word. Usual fee?"

"Can they be ginger molasses this time?" There was an oddly plaintive note in the man's voice. "Without raisins? I hate raisins."

"Two dozen of my aunt's ginger molasses cookies. No raisins." Joe moved the pencil into writing position and made a note to call home as soon as he got off the phone.

"Three dozen."

Joe whistled, the joking tone disappearing from his voice. "It's that big?"

The man's voice was barely audible. "Two million dollar policy."

"Two million? Crap..."

The pencil fell from Joe's grip as his hand flew across the desk and grabbed the folder. Photos spilled out, showing what the gallery termed 'found-item sculpture', and Joe called 'welded junk'.

"The artist honestly thought her stuff was worth that much?" He shook his head. While the sculptures weren't unattractive, they didn't seem to him to be anything special. _At least not two mil worth of special..._

"No." James's voice held a note of irony. "That's the interesting part. It wasn't the artist's policy." He paused to let that sink in for a moment. "The gallery is the beneficiary."

Joe's mouth went dry.

"And," the man continued, "I can't find that the artist has ever shown at a gallery before. Small exhibitions – local libraries, churches, that sort of thing."

"Wait a sec." Joe had to work at keeping his voice down. "You're telling me they took out a two million dollar policy on an unknown?"

A noise came from the reception area. Something had fallen on the floor of the office, and Joe could just see Calvin bending down to pick it up.

"It seemed odd to me, too, so I asked around. It seems Michaels is have a rough time financially right now. Two of the partners are getting divorced, and cash flow has become an issue. No one knows for sure, but it sounds like one of them is diverting funds for, well, whatever..." His voice dropped away.

"Yeah. Whatever." Joe's brain kicked into overdrive. "So they get an artist no one's ever heard of and the new guys on the block to do security, so when the art disappears, they get the money, and..."

"Hold on." There was a sound through the phone line, like James had put his hand over the receiver, then his muffled voice said, "Just a second. I'm finishing up with a client." The hand was removed. "So, is there anything else I can do for you today, Mr. Jones?"

Joe let out a breath. "I'm good. I owe you one Jamie. Cookies will be in the mail in the next few days."

The line clicked off.

"Damn it." Joe's hand curled around the handset, anger seething up inside him like heat rising inside his chest. "That complete and utter bastard."

A throat cleared, making him jump.

Calvin stood in the doorway, a photograph in his hand."Mr., I mean... Joe? You got a minute?" He walked into the office, holding out the photo in his outstretched hand. "There's something you need to know. Something I should have told you."

Joe took the picture in his free hand and turned it over. It was a photograph of one of larger pieces of art that had disappeared.

One of the ones spread out over his desk at this very moment.

He looked up, his eyes hard. "Where did you get this? What the hell is going on here Calvin? If that's really your name? What are you, one of those reporters who has been calling?" He could hear his voice getting louder with each question, feel the anger on the surface of his skin. The knuckles on the hand gripping the phone turned red, then white.

The young man in front of him didn't back down. "No, sir," he said. "I am exactly who I said I am. I had no idea who you were when the employment agency sent me your listing. It wasn't until during the interview when I saw the folder on your desk that I realized this was the agency the Michaels had hired." He stood straight and tall, his eyes flashing. "The artist, Grace O'Brien. She's my grandmother."

Joe dropped the receiver.


	9. Chapter 9

Sorry again for the delay in updating. I had a chapter almost all done before realizing it was Chapter 10, and I needed to do a Chapter 9 first… Anyway, it means the next one will get posted quicker!

Thanks to max2013, Caranath, candylou, Xenitha, EvergreenDreamweaver, hlahabibty, BMSH, Jilsen, sm2003495, Paulina Ann, ErinJordan, neoxer, India Raye, Jenna Tatum, and all who read and enjoyed.

 **Chapter** **9**

For a long moment, Joe could only stare at Calvin, his mouth open, his breath coming in shallow gasps.

"What did you say?" he growled.

The younger man took a step back, his chin going up, his arms moving behind his back in what a small, lucid part of Joe's mind recognized as a parade rest stance.

"Grace O'Brien is my grandmother." His eyes darted to Joe's face then shifted so he was staring at a spot in the air just in front of him. "Sir."

Joe closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and counted to ten. When he opened them again, he could see Calvin still holding position. He exhaled, trying to release some of the tension that had settled in his shoulders, then replaced the phone's handset on its base and let out another breath.

"At ease," he finally said, waving a hand in Calvin's direction. Then he pointed to the chair on the other side of his desk. "Sit. Explain."

Calvin sat on the edge of the chair, his body still rigid. "The artist. She's my grandmother."

"I got that part," Joe said, snorting. "Did she send you here?"

"No, sir."

Joe sighed. "I'm not a sir. Just… explain. The artist whose works _I'm_ being accused of stealing – or at least of being an accessory – is your grandmother."

He flipped through the folder to the mock-up of the gallery program. The last page held a brief biography of the artist as well as a head shot of the artist, a white woman with close-cropped hair in her mid-to-late sixties. He held it up, tapping his index finger on the woman's face.

"This picture. This is your grandmother?" He tried to keep the note of incredulity out of his voice.

A faint smile hovered at the corner of Calvin's mouth. "My father's family is Irish. My mother was an exchange student from Kenya."

Joe shook his head. Apparently his attempt had failed. Miserably. "I can imagine that must have been interesting."

"A bit." Calvin's smile grew broader. "They said you could hear my grandfather cursing four blocks down when they came home from eloping. And again when they called the family in Kenya." The smile extinguished in the blink of an eye. "They died in a car accident when I was four. My grandfather passed away from cancer not long after. Granna raised me. I know every single piece that was in that exhibition. Helped her scavenge for some of the parts."

"And why do you think they were stolen?"

Calvin shook his head. "I have no idea. They weren't really worth much. Individually or together. Granna takes a few commissions. Most of what she makes she sells at craft fairs. The most expensive piece she gave them would have only been worth maybe a thousand dollars. Most were a couple hundred at best." He shrugged. "She was a nurse for the city. She started doing the art as a way to blow off some steam. Now she's retired, it's a hobby. She supplements her pension with what she makes from the sales."

Joe grabbed a pencil and started bouncing the eraser against the side of the folder. "And what did she think when the gallery told her about the insurance?"

Calvin's expression hardened. "They never mentioned it to her. I wasn't trying to eavesdrop on your phone call, but no one ever told her about a two million dollar policy. She would have laughed at them."

"What did she think when the gallery approached her about doing a show with them?"

The younger man barked out a laugh. "She hung up on them. Thought it was a joke set up by my uncle Colm. They had to call back three times before she would listen to them."

"Hmm..." Joe flipped the pencil in his hand, flinching when it landed point side down on his palm. "Who called her?"

"I don't know." Calvin shook his head again. "I was in class when it happened. The only reason she answered the phone the last time was she thought it was me calling to tell her I was on my way home from school. She had some things she wanted me to pick up."

Joe flipped the pencil again. "Have the police been to talk to her?"

"Yes. Some detective. A woman. Granna has her card."

The pencil went up in the air, then arced down, this time landing sideways on Joe's palm. "Detective Rodriguez?" Just her name left a bad taste in his mouth.

"I think so," Calvin said. "I wasn't there when she came over. I was here." He gave Joe a rueful grin. "Being interviewed."

Joe grabbed the pencil with his other hand turned it, and erased the mark on his palm, his expression thoughtful. "The cops have told me to stay away from the gallery, but, you know, they didn't say a word about not talking to the artist..." A wolf's grin appeared on his face. "Think your Granna is up for a visit?"

Calvin's eyes gleamed. "I think she just might be at that."

When they got to the row of neat brownstones on Alexander Avenue, Joe did a double-take. The neighborhood was nicer than the Manhattan one he lived in. He whistled in appreciation. "Nice place," he said. "Has your grandmother always lived her?"

"The family has," Calvin said. "The area used to be called the 'Irish Fifth Avenue.'" He nodded toward the stairs. "We're on the first floor. There's a small basement apartment where Granna stores her tools and supplies." At Joe's surprised look, he continued. "It floods, so unless my uncle does some pretty heavy renovations, he can't rent it as living space. Granna pays him a couple hundred dollars a month he wouldn't get otherwise to use it as a workshop."

Joe nodded. "Makes sense."

He led Joe into the building, stopping at the door to the first floor apartment and pulling out a key. "Granna? You home?"

A woman's voice came from behind a door leading to what Joe assumed was the kitchen. "Calvin? Why are you home? Aren't you supposed to be at..."

The woman from the gallery's pamphlet appeared, holding a dishtowel in her hands. She stopped at a dining room table in the middle of the room that was covered in sketches and small pieces of twisted metal.

"You..." She looked at Joe, her eyes narrowing.

Grace O'Brien was taller than Joe had assumed from the picture. And had much more impressive biceps. That were flexing as she glared in his direction.

Joe took a step back. "So, I guess this means Detective Rodriguez showed you my picture," he said. "How kind of her..."

Calvin put his hands up. "Granna, this is my boss at the agency, Joe Hardy. He just needs to ask you some questions, that's all."

"Your…?" The woman's voice trailed off, and she muttered a few words under her breath that Joe was pretty sure were swears. In Gaelic.

"If it makes you feel any better," Joe said, "I think we're both being played. There's something else going on here." He put his hands in his pockets. "And maybe we could help each other out."

"And what's in it for me?" The question wasn't hostile; it was more matter of fact. "I can see what's in it for you. You get the police off your arse."

Joe shrugged his shoulders."For you? You get your sculptures back."

Calvin's grandmother gave him a long look. "I can always make more, you know. There's lots of junk out there on the streets just lyin' around for me to scavenge."

"Yeah..." Joe nodded. "But those pieces weren't involved in art theft. If we get back the ones that were taken, you could probably sell them for twice what you were asking. Maybe three times. And it's free publicity for your work."

For a moment her eyes widened. Then she smiled. "You make a very compelling argument, Mr. Hardy." She waved a hand at one of the dining room chairs. "Please. Have a seat." She sat down on her side of the table and turned to Calvin. "Go make tea."

Calvin practically stood to attention. "Yes, ma'am." He strode around the table and disappeared through the swinging door at the back of the room.

"All right. Talk." She folded the dishtowel and pushed aside the papers, tools, and scraps, leaning her elbows on its surface when she was done.

Joe pulled out a chair, sat down, and took a breath. "Look, Mrs. O'Brien, whatever Detective Rodriguez told you, I wasn't involved in the theft." He shook his head. "My brother and I are good at what we do, and destroying our business by stealing what we're supposed to be protecting isn't part of our business plan."

The older woman tutted. "I should think not. Stupid business plan if it was." She put her hands on the table and glanced toward the kitchen door. "Calvin tells me you run a good office."

Joe shrugged. "That's mostly Frank."

Mrs. O'Brien slammed an open hand down on the table, making him jump. "False modesty won't endear you to me, young man." There was a combative note in her voice.

"It's not false modesty." Joe's voice was matter of fact. "We each have our strengths. Office work isn't mine. I'm good at figuring out the why behind things. Frank's good at the how. We balance each other out." He cleared his throat. "For example. Part of the why behind the theft..."

The kitchen door opened, and Calvin came out with a tray holding a teapot, three teacups, and a plate of scones. "Did I miss anything?" he asked.

"No," Joe said. "We were just getting started." He waited for the tea to be poured and for Calvin to be seated before he continued. "As I was saying, part of the reason why in this case was the insurance policy."

"That's absurd." Mrs O'Brien had just been about to take a drink of her tea. The cup stayed suspended halfway between the table and her mouth. "There was no insurance on the pieces. They're hunks of scrap metal for goodness sake. Why would I insure them? I can always find more."

Calvin looked for Joe's nod before answering her. "Granna, the gallery took out a two million dollar policy on your pieces."

The teacup slowly lowered to the table. "They did what?" Her voice was quieter than Joe had expected it would be.

Joe cleared his throat. "They insured your work for..."

She waved a hand. "I heard the amount. Stupid gits. Whatever for?"

"Apparently, they are having some financial problems." Joe reached out and took a scone. It was warm in his hand and had a faint scent of cinnamon.

"Financial problem? What kind of financial problems?" She tilted her head to one side and reached out for the teacup again.

Joe shrugged. "I'm not a hundred percent sure. According to their office manager, they're having trouble paying their bills."

"And why would their office manager be telling you that?" The combative tone was back.

"She didn't," he said. Then he decided to take a chance. "She told my brother. He's there, in disguise, working with the new security they've hired. Like I said, he's good at the how."

Mrs. O'Brien looked at him for a long minute, took a sip of her tea, then slowly put the cup down. "Calvin has only had good things to say about you Mr. Hardy. He trusts you, and I haven't raised him to be overly trusting of people in general, so I'm going to believe you."

Joe let out the breath he hadn't been aware that he was holding. From the corner of his eye, he saw Calvin doing the same.

"So, now the question is, what can I do to help you?"

Joe allowed a grin to cross his face. "Well, since you've offered… How would you feel about contacting the gallery's insurance company and inquiring if there was a policy that can compensate for your lost property? Seeing as how you're a retired City nurse living on your pension?"

Calvin's eyes grew wide as they slid to his grandmother's face.

There was a long moment of silence.

"I think I would feel pretty good about doing that, Mr. Hardy." An answering grin appeared on Mrs. O'Brien's face – slightly cocky, slightly feral. "Pretty good indeed."

"Wait." Calvin's brow furrowed. "Won't that kind of force their hand?"

"More than kind of," Joe said, nodding. "And, maybe they'll do something dumb. At least I can hope they'll do something dumb. Because once they do, we'll catch them."

He pulled a piece off the scone and popped it in his mouth, smiling as the cinnamon flavor hit his taste buds.


	10. Chapter 10

Thanks to Paulina Ann, Jilsen, Candylou, BMSH, max2013, EvergreenDreamweaver, Newtothis351, amblewat, sm2003495, Xenitha, and all those who read and enjoyed but didn't review.

 **Chapter 10**

"So, you doin' it tonight?" Carmine leaned over the table, looking for all the world like he was asking Frank what he was having for dinner.

Frank nodded, his eyes focused on the blueprints spread out on the table in front of him.

"You need a second set of eyes?"

At that Frank looked up. "I don't want to get you in trouble if something goes wrong."

Carmine snorted. "You're my 'nephew'." He gave the last word more emphasis. "Pretty sure my gettin' canned would be foregone conclusion in that case." His face grew serious. "Someone's already attacked your brother, so I'm pretty sure your father'll kill me if anythin' happens to you on my watch."

"It'll be okay. I'm going to have a valid reason for being here." Frank went back to the blueprints, then pointed a finger at one spot up on a girder by the back of the room. "Right there, I think."

"Right there, what?" Carmine squinted. "I don't see nothin' there."

Frank tilted his head to the side, a grin hovering on the corners of his mouth, then slid his cell phone from his pocket. "Where I accidentally left this when I was checking the cameras this morning."

A light glinted in Carmine's eyes. "A valid reason... To tear this place apart if you need to." He clapped Frank on the shoulder. "You really are your father's son." He grinned, a hint of admiration in his eyes. "Well, given the time," he raised his voice so everyone nearby could hear him. "I think I'm gonna head home. You got plans Paulie?"

He raised his voice, too, looking over at the gallery's workroom. "It's _Paul_. And I was thinkin' dinner."

Almost as if on cue, Mr. von Ormond exited his room, locking the door behind him, followed by Liz, who waited until the manager had walked into the gallery space before turning off the lights in the workroom.

Frank nodded to von Ormond, who ignored him, then stepped away from the table to stand in Liz's way.

She stopped just as she was about to run into him, her attention on the string of keys she was tucking back into her purse, and craned her neck up to look at him. "Oh, hey Paul. Sorry. I didn't see you there."

Frank gave her one of Joe's charming smiles. "No harm, no foul." He ran a hand through the curls resting on his forehead, another move copped from his brother. "I was wonderin' if you was free for dinner tonight?" He heard the sharp intake of her breath, saw her pupils dilate.

"Let me think for a minute." Her voice took on the breathy, squeaky sound he had eventually figured out she used when she was flirting and lowered her head so she could look up at him through her lashes. "What did you have in mind?"

"There's a Chinese place a couple of blocks over," he said. "Small booths, candles. Giant soup dumplings."

Liz's head snapped up, her eyes widening, and her pupils contracting. "Soup dumplings?" Her voice dipped back into its normal register. "I love those things." She smiled up at him, a genuine smile this time, rather than one that made it look like he might be the one on the menu. "How may blocks is a couple? Will I be okay in these shoes, or should I get my sneakers out of my desk?"

"A couple. Ya know, two," Frank said, spreading his hands. "And as to the other question, I have no idea." He looked down at Liz's feet. The heels she was wearing looked uncomfortable, but, he noticed as he looked down, they made her legs look very attractive.

With a flash of annoyance, he shook his head. _Pretending to be Joe is rubbing off on me_ , he thought.

"Paul?" Liz was looking up at him, her cheeks flushed.

Frank covered his eyes with one hand. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean..."

She laughed, reaching out and squeezing his other arm. "It's fine," she said. "That's why I wear these shoes. So cute guys will look at my legs."

This time Frank was the one who turned red.

Liz bounced on her toes a few times. "If it's only two blocks, these should be fine." She slung her purse behind her back and threaded an arm through his. "Shall we?"

Dinner ended up being fairly enjoyable. The food was good, the atmosphere cozy without being overly romantic, and Liz told him some entertaining stories about some of the artists who had shown pieces at the gallery. After they left the restaurant, they meandered down the street for a few minutes, Frank trying to come up with a good way to put his plan into action.

As it turned out, he hadn't needed to.

Liz reached a hand out and squeezed his shoulder. "Do you want to come back to my place for a nightcap?" she asked, the breathy note back in her voice.

For a moment, all Frank wanted to do was grind his teeth. Then he remembered he had invited her on what seemed to be a date, so the question was one he should have expected. He gave her one of Joe's cocky grins and let his eyes roam up and down her body. "Maybe… What'd ya have in mind?"

She returned his gaze with one equally bold. "I'm sure we can come up with something..." she said, running her index finger up his chest.

"Really..." Frank cleared his throat, forcing himself not to step back. "Let me just call my Nonno."

Liz's eyebrows contracted. "Your no-no?"

Frank laughed. "My grandfather. I want to tell him not to wait up."

"You live with your grandparents?" Her voice went flat, and her hand dropped to her side.

"Just my grandfather. I'm leavin' for the academy in a couple a' months," he said. "No sense payin' for an apartment I won't be livin' in, so I gave up my lease and moved in with Nonno. Anyway, his health hasn't been too good lately, so this way I can keep an eye on him."

"That's so sweet." Liz's eyes softened, her palm moving back up to rest on his chest.

He made a show of checking his pockets before looking down at her in alarm. "Did I have my phone with me at the restaurant?"

Her forehead wrinkled as she thought. "I didn't notice. I was too busy focusing on the food." She rested a hand on her stomach as her mouth crooked up in a half-smile. "And the company. But you don't need to worry about it." She reached into her purse and pulled out her own phone. "Here. You can borrow mine."

His mind raced for a second, trying to think of a valid reason to say no. He really didn't want his apartment's phone number stored in her cell phone. Then it hit him, and he held up his hands, palms out. "Thanks, but Nonno's got caller ID. That's what happens when you got cops in the family. He won't answer the phone if he doesn't recognize the number."

On the one hand it was nice she was concerned and being so helpful, but on the other he knew she had an additional ulterior motive; the sooner he made the call, the sooner she could get him in her apartment.

 _Which really wouldn't be a good idea._ _That would be a precipitous end to th_ _is_ _undercover_ _job_ _._

He sighed and turned his gaze to the storefront across the street trying to look as if he were thinking hard about something. "I know I had it this afternoon at the gallery. I remember checking my voicemail."

She gave him an arch look. "Good thing I have a key to the gallery, then. Let's go look for it. The sooner we find it, the sooner we can move on to something, you know, more fun. Unless we decide not to wait..." The smile on her face shifted, changing into something slightly more predatory.

Frank gulped, then plastered an answering smile on his face and pulled her closer to his side. "I like the way you think. Let's go." He was definitely beginning to understand his brother's attraction to her. Joe liked his girls direct and uncomplicated.

When they got to the gallery, Liz insisted he call his 'grandfather' to let him know where he was and that he would be home late. Although he protested loudly that the old man wouldn't answer, he allowed himself to be led to her desk. A quick look at the phone told him this one wasn't capable of storing numbers, so he picked up the handset and dialed the number at his studio.

He waited for the voicemail greeting to finish and took a breath. "Nonno? Nonno, pick up. It's Paul… Answer the phone!… Oh, hey… I know. I know. I went out ta dinner with someone…." He glanced her way and gave her a smile. "Yeah, she's _real_ pretty."

Liz smiled back and tilted her head to one side, looking up at him through her eyelashes again.

"Nah, I'm back at the gallery… My phone's gone AWOL, so we're tryin' to find it. You sure you're okay? I might not be home 'til late..." He gave Liz one of Joe's winks, watching as her mouth opened slightly and her pupils grew large. "I'll check back in wit' you when I find it, okay?"

After almost an hour of fruitless searching – Frank was pleased he had decided to leave his phone actually 'hidden' – Liz was getting frustrated. And tired. Her idea that he call the phone to make it easier to find hadn't panned out – Frank's having turned the phone off to save the battery may have played a role in that failure, but he didn't tell her that – and her helpful suggestions of where else to look were becoming noticeably sulky. When she started yawning, Frank gave an internal sigh of relief.

"Hey," he said, climbing down from a step stool, pulling her close, and resting his chin lightly on her forehead. "I'm sorry. Why don' I call you a cab, so you can go home." He cleared his throat, desperately trying to figure out what Joe would say in this situation. "I'll make it up to you another time," he finally said. "Dinner, coffee, after-coffee…"

"It's okay," she said. "I'm..." A yawn split her face. "...Fine."

Frank chuckled. "No. You're not. You're practically asleep on your feet, and I can't have you fallin' down and gettin' hurt. Let me get you a cab. I can make sure the doors are locked once I find my stupid phone."

She blinked at him a couple times. "They are locked. We can get out, no problem. But..." She yawned again. "No one can get in without a key."

After a few more minutes of not being able to finish a sentence without yawning, Liz finally agreed that going home would probably be a good idea. Frank kept one foot in the door as he saw her off to the cab he had called and handed her money to pay for the ride home.

She protested, but he insisted. "I'm the reason you're out so late," he said. "S'only fair."

Once the cab had driven off and the door closed behind him, Frank grabbed the ladder, got his phone down from its resting place near the ceiling camera where he had left it, pressed the button to power it up, and turned off the overhead lights. Then he clicked on a small flashlight attached to his key ring and made his way across to the workroom.

As he walked over to von Ormond's office, he pulled some thin, cloth gloves and a small, wrapped collection of lock picks from his back pocket. He moved the flashlight to his mouth and held it between his teeth so he could shine the beam of light on the flimsy door lock, all the while ignoring the buzzing that came from his pocket as his phone indicated he had missed messages.

 _Quite a few_ , he thought as he moved the tools toward the lock.

The door opened on the second try. Shaking his head with disapproval, he started searching the office. He combed through every inch of the room – the desk, each drawer in the filing cabinet, and even the walls where art prints were hanging – before finally finding something that didn't appear to belong on a shelf at the back of the tiny coat closet.

 _This had better be it_ , he thought, sliding the small brown paper bag toward him.

It was.

A silver hard drive sat in his hand, a few scratches evident from where someone without much knowledge of computer construction had ripped it from the rails that attached it to the chassis.

He sighed, realizing that from a technical point of view, no one else would probably even care about the scratches, but from the view of someone looking for wrong-doing, this was a neon sign screaming 'Look, a clue!'.

The only computer in the gallery that could run the drive was the one in the workroom; von Ormond had a high-end laptop sitting on his desk that needed special tools to open, and the case of Liz's computer was held together with silver electrical tape and van Gogh art stickers that would be difficult to remove and replace without it being noticed. That the computer was out in the open made him a little uneasy, but he knew unless he was going to remove the hard drive from the premises, he had no choice but to use it.

Within minutes, he had the office computer's case open and had unplugged the cable connecting the drive inside the computer from the motherboard. Once he had fitted the connector to the drive from the closet, he booted the system up. A sense of relief flooded through him when the operating system's start music chimed softly in the quiet of the office.

"Come on," he murmured. "Show me what you've got…"

It took another few minutes to figure out the password. After failing on the names of artists, some well-known and others somewhat more obscure, he tried going more basic, putting a hand over his eyes and shaking his head when his next attempt worked.

 _Admin, admin_ , he thought. _Of course. When this is all over, I am having a long talk with Liz about the computer security here._ _Never mind the office security._ _Not that this isn't useful_ _for me right now_ _, but still…_

Finding the files he needed took a few more minutes. Once he located them, he opened one with a recent date stamp to verify they were in fact what he needed. Opening the file brought up a media player, and within seconds, an image of Joe walking through the gallery flickered onscreen.

Frank nodded, closed the window, and opened an internet browser, entering the web address for a file transfer protocol site he had used in the past and setting up the transfer. He watched intently as folder icons flitted from one side of the screen into a mailbox icon on the other side. He glanced down at the progress bar and groaned. The file was large and was going to take a while.

 _Too long. I should have brought some coffee,_ he thought stifling a yawn. It had been so hard not to yawn once Liz had started. _They say yawns are contagious._ He brought a hand up to cover his mouth as another one escaped. _I guess they're right._

A vibration in his pocket grabbed his attention. As he slid open his phone and put it up to his ear, he could hear his brother's annoyed voice already speaking.

"Why haven't you been answering your phone?" Joe's voice was thin coming through the tiny speaker, but even with that the profound irritation in it was evident. "I've been calling since this afternoon, and it's been going straight to voicemail."

"Long story," Frank said. "I just turned it back on not that long ago. I had to get rid of Liz first."

"Wait until you hear about…" There was a pause. "Liz? You haven't been answering your phone because you were with Liz? _My_ Liz?"

"She's not yours. She not even mine, either, now that you mention it. She went out with Paul, not me."

"But you're Paul!"

Frank let out an annoyed breath. "I'm really not. Do we have to do this now? I found something. I'm uploading files as we speak."

In the silence of the gallery's empty space, Frank heard a creaking noise. His head turned toward the other room.

"Found something? Frank, where are you? Never mind. There's an insur..."

"I have to go," Frank said, cutting his brother off. "I think I hear something." He pressed the button ending the call.

Moving as silently as he could, and cursing the fact that he was clearly visible from the light of the monitor behind him, he walked back into the gallery, his heart pounding, and hoped the darkness of the large room would hide him once he entered it.

The noise didn't come again.

 _Must have been something outside_ , he thought, yawning again. _I'm tired, and I'm hearing things._

He slid the phone back open, raising a finger to speed dial Joe's number, then paused. A prickling feeling tickled the back of his neck, and he turned slightly to see what was causing it.

Something connected with the back of his head, the force of the blow stunning him and sending him to the floor, bright flashes sparking in his vision. The phone flew from his hand, hitting the floor a few feet away from him.

He shook his head trying to clear the confusion in his brain, but all that did was make his vision blur and stretch. Through half-opened lids, he saw the hazy outline of a figure in black rush to the computer. The person's back was to him, but he could guess what was happening.

He took a guess as to the direction his phone had gone and tried to force himself up on hands and knees to search for it. Head spinning and stomach churning, he finally gave up on that idea and forced himself instead to slide forward on his elbows. But it was harder than he thought.

He only made it a few inches before a gray fog started encroaching on his vision. His head drooped, his right arm stretched out in front of him trying to find the phone by touch.

 _Stay… conscious…_ , he thought. _Must.. stay…_

The brightness from the office door disappeared, letting him know the computer's monitor had been shut down. He stopped, propped up on his elbows, his wits scrambled, and tried to figure out where the person who hit him had gone.

A sharp pain ran down his side, and the air rushed from his body as something crashed into his side. A foot, maybe? He cried out and tried to fill his lungs, but the simple action felt like knives being pushed into the muscles of his chest.

Gasping for breath from the pain, he curled in on himself, struggling to move his arms closer to protect himself from another blow. It didn't come. Instead, through the roaring in his head, he thought he heard footsteps and the click of a closing door.

He tried to straighten out, to slide across the floor toward the office and a phone and failed, the stabbing pain in his chest making him gasp for air that stubbornly refused to go into his lungs. The lack of oxygen allowed the gray fog to eat away at the shreds of consciousness he had been able to hold on to.

Through the darkness that was rapidly overtaking him, he could just make out a sound close by his head. A fading buzzing noise.

His phone.

"Joe," he wheezed. He tried once more to draw in a breath and failed. His body slumped as his vision went dark, and the blackness enveloped him.


	11. Chapter 11

Thanks to Candylou, max2013, EvergreenDreamweaver, sm2003495, zenfrodo, Caranath, BMSH, Jilsen, Xenitha, Paulina Ann, neoxer, Mara-snh, and all who read and enjoyed. Now, let's see how Frank is doing..

Note: I reposted after fixing a couple of typos I found (too late) and smoothing out the wording in the last couple of paragraphs. The main content hasn't changed. - Leya

 **Chapter 1** **1**

Joe pressed the 'end call' button on his phone for what seemed like the fiftieth time.

 _Dammit, Frank_ , he thought. _Just call back already…_

He had been calling all evening, desperate to tell his brother about the results of his visit to the O'Brien's home and getting shunted to voicemail each time.

The insurance agent they had called after finishing their tea and scones had been more than a little surprised to hear from Grace O'Brien and shocked to the point of speechlessness to realize the policy had been written without her name on it.

"You see, dear," the older woman had said, her voice honey sweet, "as it's my art that was stolen, I am feeling bereft. Can you help me to understand why I wasn't named in the policy? Or why I wasn't even _told_ there was a policy?"

The agent spluttered, every sound coming through loud and clear on the phone's intercom. "Ma'am, I… I am very, _very_ sorry, but.." There was a long pause. "I don't have an explanation for you. The policy was written by..."

There was the sound of paper being shuffled, and the agent said a name Joe didn't recognize but wrote down to check on later.

"I can assure you, ma'am, I will look into this for you. I don't know how this happened. Please accept my apologies on behalf of the company."

"We'll see," Calvin's grandmother had said. "I expect a call back tomorrow with whatever you have found."

The agent had apologized again, copied down the O'Briens' phone number, and agreed to contact them every day until he got to the bottom of this.

Once the call had been disconnected, Grace turned to Joe. "Well, that was fun. But does it help us?"

Joe nodded. "It gives us another link to someone in the gallery being responsible for the theft. I'll see what I can find out about the agent who wrote the policy." He grinned at the older woman. "I imagine they'll be very cooperative once they find out they helped commit insurance fraud." He stood and pushed his chair in. "Let me know the details of the call tomorrow."

Calvin stood as well.

Joe gave him a puzzled look. "Why are you getting up? You live here."

"We're going back to the office, aren't we?" He was standing at parade rest again.

"It's almost the end of the day," Joe said, waving a hand at him. "And you're already home. Don't worry about it. I'll see you tomorrow."

As he left, he pulled out his phone and called Frank, eager to tell him what they had found out. The call went right to voicemail.

He tried again an hour or so later. Again, voicemail. As the evening wore on the calls became more frequent, his frustration growing. Now it was past midnight, and he was about ready to kill his brother for not answering his phone all afternoon and evening.

He hit the redial button again, fully expecting to get the generic voicemail box. Again. This time, however, he heard breathing.

"Why haven't you been answering your phone?" Even if he had been able to hide his irritation, he didn't want to. "I've been calling since this afternoon, and it's been going straight to voicemail."

"Long story." Frank sounded tired. His voice was soft and a little gravelly. "I just turned it back on not that long ago. I had to get rid of Liz first."

"Wait until you hear about…" Joe stopped, his brain catching up to what his ears were hearing. "Liz? You haven't been answering your phone because you were with Liz? _My_ Liz?"

"She's not yours. She not even mine, either, now that you mention it. She went out with Paul, not me."

"But you're Paul!" Joe was having a hard time comprehending that his brother had gone out on a date while they were on a case. Or that he had gone out on a date at all. That it was with Liz completely blew his mind.

 _Sh_ _e_ _'_ _s not_ _at all the kind of girl_ _he_ _would usually go for_ , he thought, running a hand through his hair. _She's just too, too..._

"I'm really not. Do we have to do this now? I found something. I'm uploading files as we speak."

There was a pause, and for a moment all Joe could here was his brother breathing softly on the other end of the line.

"Found something? Frank, where are you? Never mind. There's an insur..."

"I have to go," Frank said, cutting him off. "I think I hear something." The line went dead.

"Shit." Joe fought the temptation to hurl his phone against the wall. Then he took a deep breath.

 _He'll call back_ , he thought. _He always calls back. I just have to wait._

He paced around his apartment, holding the phone in his hand and alternating between staring at it and glancing up the clock by the door.

One minute passed. Two. Five.

Still no call.

This wasn't like Frank. Something was wrong. He could feel it in his gut.

He took a deep breath, slapping the phone against his open palm, and replayed the conversation in his head.

 _He didn't say where he was_. _But he did_ _say_ _who he was_ with _._

He scrolled through the contacts in his phone, keeping his fingers crossed as he hit the 'call number' button next to the name.

The phone rang twice before a sleep voice said, "Hello…?"

"Liz. It's Joe Hardy. Look, I'm sorry to be calling so late, but I need your help."

Silence.

He tried again. _Maybe she's not awake yet._ "Liz? Are you there?"

"Yeah." Her voice sounded slightly more alert. "Joe? It's almost two in the morning. Why are you calling now?" There was a sharp intake of breath. "Wait… I shouldn't even be talking to you."

"Don't hang up," he blurted out. "Please."

"Give me one good..."

His words came out in a rush. "I think something's happened to Fr… Paul."

He heard another breath.

"How do you know Paul?" Her voice was ice. "Have you been spying on me?

"No!" Outrage rang out in the word. "Not spying. Investigating. _The gallery_. Not you." He let out a breath. "I'm trying to clear my name."

"Really?" The ice was still there.

"Liz, I was set up." He had to work hard to keep the anger out of his voice. "I had nothing to with the theft. We have to find out what happened, and the only way to do it is from inside."

"We?" Her voice had thawed, the ice replaced by a squeaky curiosity.

"We." He cleared his throat and counted to ten, deciding to take a chance on trusting her. "Carmine used to work with my dad. He's doing us a favor."

"And Paul? He knows about this?"

Joe nodded, then realized she couldn't see it over the phone and let out another breath. "Yeah. Look, I need to know where he was when you left him."

"At the gallery," she said, the words coming through a yawn. "He was looking for his cell phone."

He swallowed. "About that..."

She let out a breath. "It was a ruse so he could be in the gallery alone," she said, "wasn't it?"

"Yeah."

"I kind of guessed that from what you just said." She sighed. "I can meet you there in twenty minutes."

"No!" Concern for her safety coursed through him, and he started pacing the floor again. "I don't want you mixed up in this."

"Joe, you can't get in without me. You don't have a key." He heard a rustling sound in the background, most likely covers being thrown off a bed. "I do, so I have to be there. If something's happened to him..."

"I know." Joe closed his eyes, his throat suddenly tight. "I'm sorry. And thank you. If there was another way..."

"Twenty minutes," she said, and the line went dead.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

It took longer than twenty minutes for him to get there.

His first impulse had been to hail a taxi, but he knew if he did there was a good chance he would be indentified, so he ended up on the subway, keeping the hood of his sweatshirt over his face as he passed by the security cameras and wincing as the cars stopped at every single station between his apartment and the gallery.

When he finally arrived, it took him a few minutes to find her. She was standing in the shadows of the doorway, her arms wrapped around her stomach.

 _More nerves than cold,_ Joe thought. _I wonder how long she's been here?_

He rushed over to her. "Are you all right? Have you been here long? No one's bothered you, have they?"

She looked up at him. With her hair in messy ponytail, no makeup, and a long duster over a sweatshirt and jeans, she looked about twelve.

"I'm fine," she said. "It's fine."

He reached out and took her hands in his. "Thank you."

She nodded and slid her hands free. "Let's go in." She reached into a pocket, pulled out a key, and turned it in the lock.

Joe took note of the fact the key turned smoothly and easily, not how he remembered it working when he had first tried opening it.

As they walked inside, Liz automatically turned to flip the lightswitch beside the door. He grabbed her hand.

"Don't."

Her body was in the shadows, but he could just make out the puzzled expression on her face from the indistinct light of the streetlamp outside. "Joe, it's dark in here. If we turn on the lights..."

"It will be obvious someone is here," he said, finishing her sentence. "At at time when the gallery is supposed to be empty. Someone might notice and call the police. And we really don't want that right now."

"Oh." She shrugged, the motion cutting into the faint illumination on her face. "I didn't think of that. Sorry."

"It's okay," he said, pulling a flashlight from the pocket of his sweatshirt. "This isn't really a typical situation."

He swept the faint beam around the room. It only showed a few feet of the floor. He sighed. At this rate, it was going to take at least an hour to cover the entire gallery.

"What's wrong?" Her voice was a whisper in the darkness.

"Nothing. This is just going to take a while." He sighed again. "I'm not very patient."

She reached up and squeezed his bicep. "If we're lucky, he won't be here. That will mean he's okay, right?"

Joe's blood ran cold. _If he's not here…_

He swallowed. "Yeah," he lied. "Most likely we won't find him, and he's somewhere else."

They moved methodically across the large room, sweeping a few feet at at time with the flashlight's faint light. When they were about halfway to the office, Joe thought he saw a shadow. He took a few strides forward, Liz holding onto his arm in the darkness, and scanned the area. The shadow grew longer.

 _It's a funny shape_ , he thought. _Almost like… Feet…_

He swore and rushed forward, Liz's hand sliding off his arm as he moved. He kept the beam trained on the spot where he had seen the object until more of it came into view. He skidded to a stop and ran the beam along the shape he could now make out.

Lying on the floor, just a few feet in front of him, was his brother. And it looked as if he wasn't breathing.

Joe froze, his heart stuttering.

Liz stumbled up behind him, crashing into his back. "Joe! What's going on! Why did you…?" She moved to his side, grabbing onto his free arm, her eyes following the beam of light. The moment she saw the body on the floor, she dropped his arm, brought both hands up to her face, and screamed.

The noise jolted Joe from his shock. Still holding the flashlight, he dropped to his knees, scooted forward to where Frank lay, and put two fingers to the side of his brother's throat.

A faint pulse beat beneath his fingers. "Thank G-d," he whispered as he sat back on his heels. He let out a long, stuttering breath before turning back to Liz. "He's alive."

The screaming stopped. Liz bent in half, her arms wrapped around her stomach, huge, shuddering breaths making her shake.

Joe held the flashlight out to her. "Liz?''

She looked over at him.

"Can you hold this? I want to check him out."

She reached a trembling hand out toward him and grabbed the light from him. She moved a step closer to them, the beam of light jumping around on the floor.

Joe reached out, noting his brother's body position, and started lightly running his hands over his brother's legs, then arms and torso, checking for injuries. When he got to Frank's chest, he thought he heard a hiss, but Frank's breathing was so shallow, it was hard to be sure. As he checked Frank's neck and the side of his head, the wig Frank had been wearing slid off in his hands. He held it up and suddenly the room was plunged into darkness again.

Liz had dropped the flashlight. Then, the screaming started again.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

There was noise penetrating the fog blanketing Frank's brain.

 _Screaming_ , he thought, struggling back to consciousness. _Someone… needs… help._ He worked on trying to open his eyes.

Something touched his legs. Gentle hands working their way up his body, checking his limbs. When they ran across his ribs, it felt as if a burning poker had erupted in his chest, the pain almost sending him spiraling back into oblivion. When he was able to focus again, the screaming was back. And a voice. One he knew.

"Liz, it's a wig! There's nothing wrong with his head. Well, not that I can tell. I need to see if he's got a head injury. Where's the flashlight?"

"Joe?" His voice was a wheeze, barely audible even in his own ears. He took as deep a breath as he could, feeling his ribs creak as he did. "Joe."

"Frank?"

"Yeah."

A beam of light appeared in his face, and he squeezed his eyes almost shut so as not to be blinded. "Heard… screams… Who?"

"Who's Frank?" The voice squeaked up an octave from the first word to the second.

 _Liz_ , Frank thought. _Why is…?_

"My brother," Joe was saying as he knelt on the floor. "We'll explain." He turned his face toward Frank. "Are you all right?"

Frank tried to lift his head and couldn't. He grunted and lowered his head back to the floor. "Ribs."

"Your head?"

"Wig… took… some of the… brunt."

"What's going on here?" Liz sounded both scared and angry, and Frank felt a wave of guilt rush over him.

"Liz… So sorry…" He wheezed a few times, trying to get more oxygen into his lungs. Things were getting fuzzy again. "Attacked."

"Oh, my G-d." Her tone had changed to one of concern. She grabbed the flashlight back up and held it so she could see both of them. "Should I call an ambulance?"

Joe looked down. "If your ribs are broken, we'll have to."

"Not… here..." Frank wheezed out. "Too… dangerous."

"I don't like where this is going, 'bro."

"Get… outside… Then… call."

"No." Joe voice had a note of panic in it. "If you ribs are broken, you could get a punctured lung if we move you."

"Beats… jail… time… for… you."

"No, I won't let..."

"Joe!" Frank fought hard to put steel in his voice. "Losing… time." He watched as his younger brother's shoulders slumped in the flickering light and closed his eyes against the pain he knew would be coming in a few moments.

"I don't like this," Joe muttered.

"I know," he whispered. "Limited… options."

"I don't understand," Liz said. "We're bringing him outside?! Why?"

Joe sighed. "Once he's outside, you can call nine-one-one and report a collapsed person on the sidewalk. You work here, and there's an investigation going on, so it won't be too weird for you to be here." He shook his head. "Officially, I won't be involved."

Liz threw her hands up in the air, the beam from the flashlight crawling up the wall to the ceiling, then falling back down. She shifted the light back to Joe and pointed an index finger at him. "Tomorrow, you are explaining all this to me."

He nodded. "That's fair." He let out a breath and turned to his brother. "You ready?"

Frank took another shallow breath. "Minute," he said. "Disguise."

Joe looked down at him. "Isn't it going to hurt if I rip the mustache off?"

Frank opened his eyes. "Not… compared to… what's… coming."

"Point," Joe said. "And I apologize in advance." He leaned over and loosened the adhesive attaching the mustache to his brother's upper lip as best as he could, then pulled false hair off with one smooth motion. He waited for a moment, then looked in his brother's eyes. "Ready?"

"Go." The word was a whisper.

Joe let out a breath. "Liz, you walk in front. As soon as the door is shut behind us, make the call."

Frank closed his eyes again. He felt Joe reaching an arm underneath his back and gently pushing him to a sitting position. "Shit!" Bright sparks of light appeared behind his eyelids, and he could feel his consciousness deserting him again.

"Frank, bend your knees."

"Can… walk..," he whispered, even though he could feel the room starting to spin.

"No," Joe said, a hint of exasperation in the word. "You can't. Now bend your damn knees."

He did.

He could feel Joe's right arm around his back like a band of steel. Then his brother's left arm settled under his knees.

"On three," he heard Joe say. "One. Two. Three."

There was a jolt as his feet left the floor. Joe's right arm slid down his back an inch or two, sending a shooting pain straight into his chest. He hissed as a flash of light exploded behind his eyes, then the light faded, and he knew nothing else.


	12. Chapter 12

Thanks to: hollyboo2001, Paulina Ann, kirrak, BMSH, Caranath, sm2003495, Candylou, max2013, Jilsen, EvergreenDreamweaver, neoxer, CincyDreamer, Patti Catt, Guest, and all those who read and enjoyed but didn't leave a review.

As always, sorry for the long wait between updates. September is always a busy month for me what with the High Holy Days. And choir practice for the holidays. And some child support issues that are eating up way too much of my free time. Anyway….

Here we go.

 **Chapter 12**

Frank cracked open his eyes but immediately closed them again, blinded by the brightness that assailed him.

He blinked a few times trying to adjust to the light before he gave up and turned his head to squint to what seemed like a less bright area on his left. For a while, he simply lay there, his brain foggy, trying to figure out what was different from the last time his eyes had been open other than the amount of light. He closed his eyes so he could concentrate better, took a breath, and slowly let it out. Then it hit him.

He could breathe without pain. Discomfort, yes, but not actual pain.

 _Good_ , he thought. _Breathing without feeling like there's a knife in my chest is good._

He opened his eyes again and spent a few moments examining his surroundings. A curtain on his left, pastel walls washed to white in what he could now see was sunshine from a window on his right, fluorescent light fixtures, a bed with rails. A hospital. From the décor on the walls, it looked as if it were the same hospital Joe had been in. For a fleeting moment, he wondered where his brother was. Then he tried to swallow and all other thoughts left his head.

His throat felt like it had been sandblasted.

He swept his hand across the small table to his left but found nothing. No water, no call button, nothing.

"Looking for this?"

Frank's head swiveled toward the voice, the movement tweaking his injury and making him wince. He wrapped an arm around his chest, and his fingers felt bandages covering his chest under the hospital gown someone had put on him. He took a breath and forced his expression into something more neutral than the shock and pain he felt.

Detective Rodriguez stepped inside the curtained area, one hand holding a plastic bar with wires protruding from the back, the other holding her notebook.

"Detective," he croaked, his throat feeling like sandpaper. "What... a surprise."

 _And not a good one_ , he thought. He wanted to see a doctor or a nurse, someone who could give him a rundown of his injuries and possibly get him some water, and he was pretty sure the detective couldn't do the former and wouldn't do the latter.

The bandages corroborated what he remembered about the attack; there was definitely a problem with his ribs, and although his head felt fuzzy, it didn't have that disconnected feeling he associated with having a concussion. He hoped that maybe, just maybe, he had gotten lucky this time.

She snorted. "Not as much of a surprise as when I saw a report saying a Hardy brother had been attacked right outside a gallery he isn't supposed to be within fifty feet of. Now, why was that, I wonder?" Sarcasm rolled off the question.

"Not..." Trying to talk hurt, and with his brain still not quite functional, Frank felt talking to the detective right now might not be the best idea. He allowed his expression to go slack and dropped his head back on the pillow, closing his eyes and hoping that maybe, if she thought he had fallen unconscious again, she would leave and go find a nurse.

"Mr. Hardy?" There was a note of panic in the detective's voice.

 _Good_ , he thought. _Now hit that button._

"What the hell is going on?" Joe's voice rang out from the doorway.

There was the sound of footsteps, then a hand on his shoulder.

"Frank?"

Frank opened his eyes, saw the concern on his brother's face, and raised a hand to his throat. "Water." His mouth moved but no sound came out.

Joe looked around. "No cups. I'll call the..." His eyes landed on the device in the detective's hand and his hands curled into fists. "You. Give me that, and get the hell out of my brother's room. Now!"

Rodriguez tossed the call button back on the table where it landed with a thudding sound. "I'll be back," she said as she backed toward the door. "I need you to answer some questions."

Joe grabbed the device and pressed the red 'call nurse' button several times as he watched the door close on the detective's retreating form. "I really, really hate her," he muttered, the knuckles on his hand turning white as he gripped the plastic. He turned back toward the bed, his expression softening. "Are you all right?"

Frank nodded, his hand still wrapped around his throat.

The door opened, and a male nurse entered the room. He looked at Joe holding the call button, and stopped. "Is everything…? Oh, hey. It's you. What's the problem?"

Joe blinked at him a few times before speaking. The man looked familiar. It only took a second for the memory to kick in; he was one of the nurses who had assisted on the exam after he had been drugged.

"John, right?"

The man nodded, and Joe moved to the foot of the bed. "My brother needs water. Can he have water?"

"He's awake?" The man moved closer to the bed, and Frank nodded at him. "Let me take a look at you, Mr. Hardy, then we'll see what we can do about getting some water for you. Just lie back." He did a quick check of Frank's vitals, and nodded. "I'll be right back." He resettled his stethoscope over his shoulders. "Funny. I thought the last shift had put a cup of ice chips in here before they left." He shrugged. "Back in a tick."

As he left the room, Joe noticed a large, empty white cup sitting in the trashcan and exploded. "She drank the… Gah! What is it with that woman _not_ telling the medical professionals that we're conscious?! She has to walk right by the nurses' station to get anywhere."

Frank shook his head, started to shrug, then winced.

"You okay?" Joe asked, moving closer.

"Head," Frank mouthed, pointing to his temple. "Concussion?"

"Okay, I got 'water' the first time because you had your hand around your throat, and I got 'head' this time," Joe said, "because you pointed to it. I missed that last word completely." He let out a breath. "Sorry, 'bro, I can't read lips."

Frank sighed, nodded, and spread his hands in an 'I know' gesture.

The door opened again, and John entered the room holding an extra-large plastic cup with a straw sticking out the top and a laptop under his arm.

"Here you go," he said, handing it to Frank. "Start slow, just a few sips at a time. You haven't had anything in your system in a while, and we need to make sure that water stays put. It wouldn't be good for your ribs if it tried to come back up."

Frank nodded in agreement and took a few sips, holding the water in his mouth before swallowing slowly. The cool liquid trickled down his throat, soothing the broken glass feeling. He took a few more sips before trying to talk. "Thank you," he finally said. His voice was a rasping whisper, but the words were understandable. "What's my condition?"

John pulled the laptop out from under his arm and flipped the lid up. "Let's see," he said, scrolling through the screen. "Fractured ribs, left side..." He whistled. "From the look of the x-ray, you're lucky they didn't break. You were about this close to a punctured lung."

Joe put his head in his hands.

"Otherwise," the nurse continued, "you've got some bumps and bruises – there's a nasty one above your right ear, but otherwise, you're in pretty good shape for having been mugged."

"No concussion?" Frank held the straw up to his lips.

"We'll need to do a few tests, but it's not looking that way. You got lucky."

"Mugged?" Joe lifted his head and looked at the man.

John shrugged. "Educated guess from the injuries. Isn't that what happened?"

Frank and Joe exchanged a look.

"I... don't know," Frank finally said, the words gravelly.

John's expression turned sympathetic. "Yeah, memory blips like that can happen. Even without a concussion." He closed the laptop. "I'll be back in a bit with some math tests for you so we'll know for sure about your head injury. Why don't you just rest right now?"

Once the door shut, Frank turned his gaze to his brother. "What did you tell dispatch?"

Joe shook his head. "I didn't. Liz made the call." He sat down heavily in the chair next to Frank's bed. "I hid in an alley across the street until the ambulance showed up. I watched them load you in, and then I went home to wait for a call from the hospital." A faint blush covered his cheeks. "Not my proudest moment."

Frank tilted his head. "What do you mean?"

"I mean I cowered in a darkened alley while my brother was lying unconscious and barely breathing on the ground waiting for an ambulance. _Alone._ " Joe's face was turning red, his voice full of anger. "I was useless."

Frank regarded him for a long moment. "No," he said, after taking another pull from the straw. "You did what I told you to do." He pushed the straw aside and took a gulp of the water. "Which was staying out of jail. If the police had found you by the gallery..."

The door swung open. Detective Rodriguez walked in, notebook open, pen in hand.

She looked at the two of them and smirked. "Interrupted while you were getting your story straight?"

Joe jumped to his feet. "What's the matter with you? My brother was attacked! You should be out looking for who did it, not..."

"Joe..." Frank put up a hand, waiting until his brother sat down before turning to the woman. "Are you here for a statement, Detective? Or just to insinuate we orchestrated this assault, too?"

"A statement." The woman flushed, and turned a page in her notebook. "What were you doing at the Michaels Gallery?"

"What do you mean?" Frank tilted his head to one side and gave the detective a puzzled look.

Rodriguez snorted. "According to the 9-1-1 call, you were found on the sidewalk right outside the Michaels Gallery. Care to explain how that happened?"

Frank looked at her for a moment before speaking. "There's a Chinese restaurant three blocks away from the subway station. Lucky Panda. The most direct route passes by the gallery."

The detective's hand froze over a blank page. "And you expect me to believe that?"

"I have no control over what you believe, Detective." Frank let some of his annoyance slip into the words. "But if you check the address, you'll see the most direct route there goes right by the gallery. Take a picture of me and show it to the cashier," he said. "She'll recognize me. I'm a regular there. I order the soup dumplings every time I go there. I can highly recommend them." He drank more water, keeping his eyes on her face.

"Soup dumplings..." She made a face. "And you didn't see who attacked you?"

Frank lifted a hand to the knot on his head. "I was hit from behind. There's no way I could have seen who did it." He turned toward his brother. "Joe, where are my things?"

Joe indicated a three-drawer plastic chest with his chin, his arms crossed in front of his chest. "In there I think." He stood. "Do you need me to check something?"

"Please," Frank said. "Is my wallet in there?" He watched as his brother yanked open the drawer and rummaged around in it, finally coming out with a folded brown, leather square.

"This it?"

Frank nodded. "What's inside?"

Joe opened the wallet and tipped it upside down. Several coins fell on the floor along with a few pieces of paper and a small, plastic rectangle. He bent over and picked everything up. "I think the better question is 'what's left?'" he said. "Looks like your license, some dry cleaning receipts, and..." He counted the change. "...forty-seven cents." He looked over at Frank. "You had actual money in here, right 'bro?"

"I did earlier." Frank let out a breath.

Rodriguez raised an eyebrow. "So, you're telling me you were mugged?"

"I'm telling you I was attacked, Detective." He waited a beat. "I don't know what happened after I lost consciousness." He cleared his throat, then took another sip of water. "Will there be anything else?"

It was clearly a dismissal, and Rodriguez knew it. Her face darkened, and the notebook clapped shut. "Don't make yourself hard to find."

Frank held her eyes until she looked away. She turned and stomped out the door.

Joe let out an explosive breath. "I need you to teach me how to do that."

"How to do what?" Frank also let out a breath. Now that the detective had gone, he was suddenly exhausted.

"Get rid of her without getting angry," Joe said. "Shut my mouth once I've answered her questions." He sighed. "Is there really a Chinese restaurant three blocks from the gallery?"

Frank nodded. "And I do eat there fairly regularly."

Joe flopped back down in the chair and gestured with his hands. "And, if I had to guess, I would say there was nothing in what you said just now that wasn't the exact truth."

"Every word was true," Frank said, shifting slightly, his side twinging. "They just answered different questions than the ones she asked." He ran a hand over his face. "When are we meeting Liz?"

"Tomorrow," Joe said, looking carefully at his brother.

"I thought you said…"

"Tomorrow," he repeated, his voice firm. "You're injured and exhausted. We'll meet her tomorrow at that coffee shop where we talked to Carmine."

"Tomorrow..." Frank lifted his head and clenched his teeth, a hissing sound escaping his mouth. He felt the blood drain from his face as he eased back on the pillows.

Joe leaped to his feet. "What's wrong?"

Frank took a few shallow breaths and shook his head. "The gallery. I didn't show up to work today."

"It's okay." Joe's voice was reassuring. "Carmine told them you had a family emergency. And tomorrow's Saturday so you'll get a chance to recover a bit before you go back." He moved closer to the bed and rearranged the pillows under his brother's head. "You rest up now. I'll let you know when John shows up with the math test so you can wow him by doing all the problems in your head."

"Thanks." Frank's voice was dry. "You know how I love math..." He let out a breath. "I'll just close my eyes for a minute..." Within seconds, he was asleep.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-oo-o

They met up at the coffee shop late in the afternoon the next day.

After a good night's sleep, Frank's head felt much clearer. His ribs still hurt when he moved too quickly or rose from sitting, but the pain was manageable if he was careful and braced himself on something. He looked around to see his brother had beaten him there and was already sitting at a table with an African-American guy who looked younger than he probably was and, even seated, had a military bearing about him.

Joe lifted a hand and waved his brother over, watching as he cautiously maneuvered his way through the bustling cafe toward their table. Frank was dressed pretty much as he had been the last time they had been there but without the glasses. 

_The earpiece was probably leaning right where he got whacked_ , he thought. He stood and pulled out a chair, watching as Frank gingerly lowered himself into it.

"Sit tight," he said. "I'll get you some coffee."

Frank looked up at him. "What?"

"I'll get your coffee so you don't have to get back up again. Splash of milk, no sugar, right?" He looked at the expression on his brother's face, then down at the floor. "What? Did someone spill something on me?"

"No," Frank said, shaking his head. "Just wondering who you are, and what you did with my brother. You're going to get me coffee? Okay..." He shook his head, then held out a hand to the man at the table. "Frank Hardy. I'm guessing you're Calvin?"

Calvin nodded and took the proffered hand. "Yes, sir. Calvin O'Brien."

Joe grinned as Frank's eyes widened upon hearing Calvin's deep bass voice. "I'll leave you two to get acquainted. I'll go get that coffee and keep an eye out for Liz."

Frank nodded, his attention already elsewhere.

As the barista was handing Joe the coffee, he felt a touch on his arm.

"Hey, am I late?" Liz was standing next to him wearing yoga pants, the same duster she had been wearing the other night, and sneakers. Her hair was in a high ponytail that hung down past her shoulders.

"No. You're fine. Frank just got here. Sorry for the timing. I needed to make sure Frank was up for the meeting." He shifted the coffee mug to his left and tried to shake the heat off his other one. "Were there any problems at the gallery yesterday?" He could see faint dark circles under her eyes and felt a momentarily pang of guilt.

"No." She shook her head, the ponytail floating back and forth over her shoulders. "I asked Mr. Esposito where 'Paul' was" – she made air quotes when she said the name – "he said there was a family emergency. I don't think anyone suspected anything." She frowned. "Although Mr. von Ormond asked how my date had gone."

Joe inhaled sharply and shifted the mug again. "What did you tell him?"

"That we had dinner, and unless he wanted to be in violation of the gallery's sexual harassment policy, he wasn't allowed to ask anything else." She gave him an arch look. "I smiled when I said it, so he thought I was kidding around. He did walk away very quickly, though."

"Good." He placed his free arm behind her back and guided her over to the table where Frank and Calvin were in deep conversation, Calvin facing them, Frank with his back to the room

Liz stopped. "I thought you said Frank was here?" she asked, puzzlement obvious in her voice.

"Yeah, he's right there." Joe gestured with the coffee mug, narrowly avoiding sloshing some of the still piping-hot liquid all over his shoes.

"But..." Lines formed on Liz's forehead then smoothed. "That's right. You said he was wearing a wig." She let out a breath. "Well, we should get started."

Once she got something to drink, he brought her over to the table and pulled out a chair for her before placing the mug in front of Frank. "Here you go, 'bro. Just the way you like it."

"We'll see about that," Frank said lifting the mug to his lips and taking a sip. "You're getting there. Next time I want dark roast."

Liz jumped in her seat.

Frank turned to her, his nostrils flaring as he tried to keep from flinching with the motion. "Liz, this is Calvin O'Brien, our office manager." He indicated the younger man with a nod of his head. "Did everything go all right at the gallery yesterday?"

"Yeah," she squeaked. "Just fine." She cleared her throat and took a sip of her drink. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to stare, but you're not the same. I mean, you are, but you're not..." She waved a hand in front of her. "It's not just the hair and the clothes. Your voice is different." She squinted at him. "And the scar is gone..."

"Makeup," he said, gingerly placing his left elbow on the table and leaning onto it. "And picking up an accent."

Liz nodded, then turned to Calvin. "O'Brien? Like the artist?"

"Just like the artist." The voice came from behind them.

Calvin looked up and shook his head. "Granna, what are you doing here?"

"I followed you. How would I have known where you were going otherwise?" Grace O'Brien didn't look at all abashed as she pulled up a chair from a nearby table. "Scooch over," she said to her grandson. "I have news. That agent we talked to the other day called me back." She sat down and looked them all over before looking pointedly at Liz. "You, I know. You're the office girl from the gallery. You're helping the boys figure out what happened?"

"Yes," Liz said, her voice firm. "I don't like being used."

The older woman nodded, her gaze shifting to Frank. "You, I don't. You're the brother?"

Frank nodded. "Frank Hardy. Nice to meet you, Mrs. O'Brien. Joe has told me a lot about you."

She snorted. "All of which was flattery, I'm sure."

He flashed her a half-smile. "The word 'scones' did come up several times."

"Granna." The word came from between Calvin's nearly gritted teeth. "You said news. What it is?"

"The insurance company paid out already," Liz said.

Everyone turned to look at her.

"Exactly." Calvin's grandmother raised an eyebrow at them. "Awfully quick on that, don't you think?"


	13. Chapter 13

Thanks to: Caranath, Jenna Tatum, Candylou, max2013, Paulina Ann, BMSH, ErinJordan, sm2003495, neoxer, Liana Jane, zenfrodo, Jilsen, Xenitha, Black Cobra, julzdagger88, curlingduck, and all those who read and enjoyed but didn't leave a review.

Happy Holidays!

 **Chapter 1** **3**

Joe's fist crashed down on the table. "How the hell did that happen?" He shook his head, his eyes flashing. "And not a peep from Jamie."

"Is that the guy who called you the other day?" Calvin still sat ramrod straight in his chair, his hands resting on the table.

Joe nodded. He moved his hands to his knees, forcing them to relax.

"He might not have known," Grace said. "My source…," her lips quirked at the word, "stumbled across it by accident. He said it appeared to have been… I believe the word he used was buried."

"How did you find out about it?" Frank turned his gaze to Liz who was still looking at him with wide eyes.

"I figured it out?" Her voice squeaked the last word into a question. To cover it, she took a sip from her mug and cleared her throat, her eyes still on Frank. "There was a new computer in the office when I got in to work in the morning. If we haven't had the money to fix the old one, there was no way a new one was just going to show up. And at the end of the day I realized something else. One of the vendors has been calling every day wanting to be paid, sometimes multiple times a day. He didn't call yesterday. After I got out of work, I stopped by to find out why not." She looked around the table. "He said he'd been paid."

Calvin leaned forward on the table. "Paid in full?"

Liz nodded.

"Interesting," Frank said. "I never thought to ask this, and I don't want to be rude, but has the gallery been paying your salary? If they haven't been paying vendors, and they didn't pay us or Carmine anything up front..." His voice trailed off.

"Mr. von Ormond and I are the only paid staff members. I mean, I'm sure the Michaels each get a salary, but we're the only ones in the office on a regular basis." Liz's eyes flickered away from him to the table. "The other people who come in are contact employees or unpaid student interns." She licked her lips then raised her chin in an almost defiant gesture. "I haven't gotten the last raise I was promised, but Mr. von Ormond told me as soon as it took effect, I would get back pay on it."

"How long has it been?" Frank's eyes narrowed with the question.

"Almost six months." Her chin went even higher as if she were daring one of them to say something.

Joe snorted, his fingers tapping out a beat on his knee. "I hope you got that in writing. Liz, if they haven't been giving you what you're worth, why are you still there?"

"I like it there," she said, her voice quiet but steely and without a hint of a squeak. "I like the artists. I like getting the occasional challenge. And it's a job. It's not always easy to find a new one."

"I'm sorry," Joe could feel himself shrinking into his chair. "I.. I didn't mean that to come out the way it did. From what I saw while I was working there, you should be the one running the gallery. Not… _him._ " To try and hide some of his embarrassment, he turned to his brother. "Frank, what do you…?

Frank's gaze was blank as if he were a million miles away rather than sitting at the table with them all.

"'Bro?" No reaction. He raised his voice. "Earth to Frank. Are you there, Frank?"

Frank blinked, his head slowly turning in Joe's direction. "Sorry. What were you saying?"

"Are you all right?" Joe fought to keep the worry from his voice. _Maybe they missed something. Maybe I should have made them take a CAT scan._

"I'm fine," Frank said, his eyes still distant. "There's just something I'm missing..." For a brief instant a scowl darkened his face, disappearing almost as quickly as it had appeared. "It'll come to me." He shook his head, his expression instantly shifting to one of interest.

Calvin cleared his throat, the noise a foghorn. "So, what's our next step?"

For a few moments, no one said a word, the sudden silence covering the table like a weighted blanket.

Finally, Joe spoke. "I'll call Jamie back. See if I can't bribe him with more of Aunt Gertrude's cookies to find out which member of the Michaels family got the payout."

"I can throw in a batch of scones," Grace added. "More incentive. And I'll work on my agent. It can't hurt," she said with a shrug.

"I can see which other vendors got paid," Liz said. "It should be pretty easy to..."

"No." Frank cut across the end of her words. "You won't."

Joe was startled at the vehemence in Frank's voice. "You're already involved more than you should be," his brother said. "It's too dangerous."

Liz's eyes flashed. "I can take care of myself."

Frank's expression softened. "Liz, they've already attacked me and Joe. I don't want anything to happen to you. If you got hurt, it would be our fault."

"They wouldn't!" Her eyes flashed for a moment before dimming. She slumped back into her seat. "At least I don't think they would..."

"You can keep your eyes open," Joe said. "You would be the one to notice something out of the ordinary. But don't go looking for trouble."

She nodded her face clouded. "I'll let you know if I find anything."

Calvin pushed a piece of paper across the table. "Call me if you notice anything." At her puzzled expression, he continued. "My cell number. It would look suspicious if you called the agency or any of our residences. No one should be able to trace that number back to me. At least not easily."

She looked at him for a long moment before taking the paper and putting it in her pocket. "Thank you."

"If there's nothing else, I should be on my way. It seems I have scones to bake." Grace rose, Calvin leaping up to pull her chair out for her.

Joe also stood and offered the older woman his arm, "I'll walk you to the door. I'll need to get some details on these scones so I can describe them accurately." His eyes were twinkling. "And maybe see how I can get in on that action."

Once they were across the room, Liz cleared her throat. "I thought of something while we were talking." Her tone was uncertain. "It might not be important, but..."

Frank gazed at her, very aware of how she had been looking at him. Or, rather had _not_ been looking at him. He let out a breath. "Liz, I know you don't have any reason to trust me right now," he said, his voice soft, "and I'm sorry. I don't like lying to people, but circumstantial evidence can be convincing, and I'm trying very hard to keep my brother out of jail. If there's anything, however small, I need you to tell me. I just don't want you to go looking for trouble."

She turned her head, her eyes on Joe as he waved to Grace and Calvin through the open door, and sighed. "This is nothing like that. It's just… He came in wearing new shoes yesterday. Mr. von Ormond."

Frank tilted his head to the side, waiting for her to continue.

"He hasn't had new shoes in a while. I think… When you asked whether or not we were getting paid… It made me think. I realized he hasn't shown up in anything new in a while. Usually he does something slightly less than subtle to make sure I notice." She pursed her lips. "It used to be all the time, but now that I think about it, he hasn't purchased any new clothes since we've been having issues with the vendors."

"I see." Frank nodded. "Thank you." He watched as she stood and adjusted her long coat. Just as she was about to turn away, he said. "I meant what I said about not wanting you to get hurt. Please be careful."

She nodded, then turned and walked away.

Once everyone had gone, Joe walked back over to the table to see his brother staring into space again, his brow furrowed in concentration. He had to call his name twice before Frank responded.

"Still can't remember?"

Frank shook his head, a look of disgust blanketing his features. "No. And it's going to drive me crazy until I do." He let out an annoyed breath. "It's important. I know it is."

Joe jerked his head back toward the door. "Come on," he said. "I'll take you home. Maybe it will come to you later."

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

It didn't come to him later.

Frank lay in awake for hours, propped up on a multitude of pillows to ease the ache in his ribs, trying to will the information back into his brain. After having slept most of the time he was in the hospital and much of the day today, he could now only doze fitfully, his brain running on overtime trying to recapture that one elusive thought.

And failing.

Frustrated, he made himself get out of bed, threw on a robe and walked to the kitchen to find something to drink. After rummaging around in his cabinets for a few seconds, he decided on an old remedy for sleeplessness his mother used to make. With one hand, he grabbed the glass jar of honey from one of the cabinets, and with the other pulled a small saucepan off the rack on the wall. He placed the saucepan on the cooktop's small burner, poured out a dollop of honey, then opened the refrigerator looking for milk. As the mixture heated through, he added a small splash of vanilla extract and a pinch of salt, the aroma reminding him of his childhood and soothing his jangled nerves.

He carefully pouted the milk into a mug, then trudged back to his bed after making sure the burner was off. He settled into his pillow nest, tested the drink to make sure it wouldn't burn his mouth, and took a sip. Immediately, he felt calmer. Still holding the mug in his right hand, he reached out with his left to grab his laptop off the nightstand. Between his hospitalization, Joe's hovering in the morning, and the meeting that afternoon, he hadn't had a chance to check his email.

He took a long sip of the drink as the he logged in and waited for the mail site to load. It tasted just as good now as it had when he was younger, and he made a mental note to call his mother in the morning to thank her.

Most of what was in his inbox was of no importance, but one message caught his eye. In all caps the subject line read: 'DOESN'T YOUR BROTHER CHECK HIS EMAIL?' with an address that started with a string of numbers and ended in BayportTimes(dot)com. He smiled and clicked on the message.

It was blank, the only text on the screen being Liz Webling's signature line.

Frank smiled and hit the reply button. 'Of course not,' he typed. 'You've met Joe, right? Do you want me to have him call you? Or just check his email?' He hit send and took another drink of his milk.

The phone rang before he had a chance to swallow.

He grabbed the handset from his nightstand and heard a woman's voice. "Are you actually up? Or was there a delay in the email sending?"

Frank sputtered, the warm liquid getting caught in his throat as he tried to make sure it went down the right pipe. He coughed twice, his chest feeling like he was being stabbed with a hot poker.

"Frank?" Liz's voice held a worried edge. "Are you okay?"

"Hold on a sec," he wheezed, putting the mug down on a coaster and wrapping his arm around his chest. He took an experimental breath and felt only a twinge. "Yeah. I'm fine. Cracked ribs, but fine overall."

"So I didn't wake you up?"

"No. I spent most of the day resting," he said. "I was awake."

She snorted. "And in true Frank Hardy fashion were relaxing by reading your email. Of course." She sneezed, the sound echoing through the speaker.

"Are you all right?"

He could practically see her waving the question aside. "On the recovery side of the flu," she said. "Didn't Joe tell you?"

Frank shook his head, then stopped remembering she couldn't see him. "No. We've been a little tied up with a case."

"I heard." The words were soft. "Look, Joe asked me to find out a name for him of a managing editor. That's what I emailed him about, but I was hoping he would call..." Her voice trailed off.

"You've heard something." Frank knew without a shadow of a doubt this was why she was trying to get in touch with Joe.

"Well, I did some digging," she said. "Your gallery owner – the mister one – word is he's got a new gallery space lined up, is just about to sign a lease and everything."

Frank startled, groaning as his ribs protested. "Where did you hear that?"

There was a chuckling noise from the phone. "You know a reporter can't reveal her sources, Mr. Hardy."

He sighed. "I know, but I can still ask." He waited a moment, trying to collect his thoughts. "Your source didn't say when, did they?"

"That's all I got," she said. "Sorry."

"No. It's useful, Liz. Thanks." His lips curved into a smile. "You ever think about getting out of the newspaper business and into detective work?"

She snorted again. "No. I'll leave that to the two of you. Just be sure to tell Joe to check his email."

"I will. And really, thank you."

"Not a problem," she said. "Always happy to help a friend."

"And get an exclusive?" he said, his smile having widened to a grin.

"You know me too well, Frank Hardy." There was another sneeze. "Ugh. I have to go blow my nose. Remind Joe he owes me dinner and an interview." The line went dead.

He cradled the handset for a moment before putting it down. Mr. Michaels already had another gallery space. That was interesting to know…

"I wonder..." he whispered.

Shaking his head, he reached for the mug again. The milk mixture was now lukewarm, but with the honey it still tasted wonderful.

He finished the drink and put the mug down, then pulled the laptop closer, deleted the message from Liz, and started scrolling through the other unread messages in his inbox, deleting them if they weren't important or highlighting them if they were something he needed to deal with later. After his second or third yawn, he thought it might be time to give up for the night. The warm drink had done its work, and he was finally feeling sleepy. Looking down at the page, he saw there were five messages at the bottom he hadn't dealt with. For a moment, he considered ignoring them until the morning, but a small anal-retentive part of his brain knew he wasn't going to be able to sleep until he he had finished looking at them all.

Sighing, he clicked on the first couple, relegating them to the trash folder after a quick glance, but something about the third one caught his attention. It was from an online FTP site he used every now and then when he needed to transfer files but didn't have a handy flash drive. He clicked on, scrolled past the message that said the file had been truncated due to a loss of connections, and opened the folder.

It was a good thing he was no longer holding the mug, or it would have fallen to the floor.

On the screen in front of him was an image of Joe slumped over on a chair, his head lolling toward his chest, his hands tied behind his back. And to his right was what looked like a brown shoe. A shoe obviously attached to another person.

 _Which proves he wasn't in there alone..._


	14. Chapter 14

Thanks to: Paulina Ann, BMSH, Candylou, max2013, sm200349, julzdagger88, Jilsen, hlahabibty, Barb, Guest, musicgurl21284, and all others who read and enjoyed. I am giving up apologizing for how long it takes me to post, but I have to say, this chapter did NOT want to get written. I redid it about five times before I was happy with it, so I hope you enjoy.

 **Chapter 1** **4**

Carmine squinted at the screen, tilting his head first to one side then the other, trying to see the image in the bright sunshine pouring in through the windows of the café.

"'Dis what you was gettin' the other night?" He glanced sideways, caught Frank's nod, then grunted and waved a finger at the brown blob of the right side of the flickering frame. "What the hell is that?"

Frank leaned in close to see what the older man was pointing at, sliding a pair of half-moon glasses across the table as he did so. "A shoe."

"And look. There I am. In the chair." Joe's voice got louder with each word. He was standing next to the table, his fingertips pressed lightly on its surface to balance himself as he bounced on the balls of his feet causing both the laptop and the cups of coffee next to it vibrate. "And since I was tied..."

"Joe." Frank's voice was sharper than he had intended. With one hand he moved the coffee away from the laptop, put the fingertips of the other to his head in an effort to stave off the headache he could feel coming on, then shot his brother an apologetic look. "Sorry."

Joe nodded, the bouncing subsiding a touch. "'S'okay," he said in a lowered voice. "We're both a little on edge."

Frank looked around, making sure that no one had noticed his brother's outburst, and was relieved to see it didn't appear anyone had. Most of the other customers had their faces buried in their own computers, many bopping their heads in time to whatever music was playing through their earphones or earbuds, or were in deep conversation with their companions. He sighed and rubbed his eyes, feeling the lack of sleep from the night before, took a large gulp of coffee, and returned his attention to Carmine.

"Yes. This was what I was trying to get. Or at least some of it. These must have transferred before they shut the computer off." He let out a frustrated breath. "Given the new computer Liz mentioned yesterday, they probably destroyed the hard drive I had connected to the old one."

"Yeah. I saw the new one when I got there in the morning. You're lucky you got 'dis much." Carmine settled the glasses on his nose. He tapped them and snorted. " _This_ is what happens when you get old, boys. Not everythin' works so good as it did. Oh, yeah. Now I see it. Leather from the looks of it. Interestin' choice of footwear for a break-in."

The screen changed, showing another view, this one from above and to the right. Joe's legs and sneakers were visible in the bottom right corner. The rest of the screen showed a few large shiny blurs leaning against or attached to the walls, with one in the middle of the floor. Then the screen went black.

Frank clicked a button on the keyboard, and the image flickered back to life. It paused, and he pointed to the top left corner.

"The date stamp on this one shows two in the morning." He backed up to the first image. "This one is..." He squinted at the numbers on the screen.

"Twelve forty-five," Joe said, his bouncing speeding up again. "Whoever they were, this makes it obvious they were stealing stuff with me not in any condition to help them."

Carmine nodded. "You sent this to detective what's-her-name yet?"

"Rodriguez, and no." Frank shook his head.

Joe snorted. "I'm pretty sure she'd think we doctored the footage somehow."

"Put it on one of them… Whaddaya call em… Flash drives. I got someone I can give it to who'll take it seriously." The older man pulled the glasses from his face and plunked them down on the table. "I'll tell him it was an anonymous tip. He won't ask too many questions, and he'll make sure it don't get buried."

"Is he on duty today?" Frank slid the laptop across the table, closing the lid.

"Nah." Carmine lifted his wrist to check his watch. "If I leave now, I can catch him when he gets home from church. If I get lucky, I'll get an invite to Sunday dinner. His wife cooks like nobody's business." He winked as he rose and pushed in his chair. "You back tomorrow?"

"I'll be there," Frank said.

"I'll see you then." The older man waved as he left.

Joe watched him go, then sat down with a thump in the seat Carmine had just vacated.

"I don't like you going back there," he said, his fingers tapping the table top.

Frank was looking at the screen. "It's just for one more day. Then Carmine's work is done, and there won't be any reason for me to be there." His fingers traced a pattern on the laptop's trackpad. "You never know, I might get lucky. Hey, look at this." He turned the laptop around and pointed to the screen.

Onscreen was the image where Joe was completely visible in the chair.

"What are we looking at? I literally have no idea what you're showing me."

Frank minimized the window and opened another one. "It was something Carmine said." The new window showed an expansion of the top corner of the image. "About interesting footwear." The enlarged section was grainy and pixelated.

Joe shook his head. "I don't see it. You're going to need to explain it to me."

"I'm not sure..." Frank drummed his fingers once on the tabletop. "I need to see if there's a way to enhance the image. There's something about the shoe..." He sighed. "I'll work on it later."

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

The banging noise in the hallway at six-thirty in the morning startled Frank into dropping his toothbrush on the floor. He tried bending over to pick it up, but the burning poker pushing through his chest convinced him it would be a bad idea.

 _Bang. Bang. Bang._ This time the sound was more like a hammer, and it wasn't coming from the hallway, it was coming from his door. He sighed, flinching as the breath left his lungs, wrapped an arm around his midsection, and walked carefully toward the door.

"Took you long enough." It was Joe, looking much too awake for an hour of the morning he usually refused to admit existed.

"What are you doing here?" The words carried more of a suspicious edge than he had intended, and Joe snorted.

"And good morning to you, too, 'bro. You gonna let me in? Or do I have to stand in the hallway?"

Frank shuffled back a few paces, allowing his brother to enter the apartment and shutting the door behind him.

They stood in the open room for a few seconds staring at each other, then Joe jerked his chin toward his brother's chest.

"Impressive bruises."

"Thank you." Frank pulled his bathrobe closed and retied the belt. "You still haven't answered my question. What are you doing here?"

Joe shook his head. "You're heading back to the gallery today, right?" He waited for Frank's nod, then continued. "I've had cracked ribs before. I'm guessing you can barely move without it feeling like your chest is on fire, so I came here to help with bandages. If they're tight enough, you'll be able to move easier, and von Ormond won't be suspicious."

Frank took a step back, touched by his brother's consideration. "Oh. Thank you."

"Because, of course you weren't going to ask for help." Joe rolled his eyes. "You never do. So, let's get wrapping." He marched across the open space toward the tiny bathroom. "Hey, did you know your toothbrush is on the floor?"

Once Frank's torso was bandaged, Joe sat down at the kitchen table, and Frank pulled out some bagels and cream cheese and put them on the table with some plates, silverware, and a glass of milk for his brother. Once seated, he reached for his laptop and tapped on a few keys.

"What'cha doing?" Joe grabbed a knife, neatly sliced open a bagel, and smeared cream cheese on one half.

"I got the pictures enlarged. Now I'm trying to reduce some of the blur so I can get more details. I feel like there's something important I'm missing."

Joe grunted. "You get them to Carmine?"

Frank nodded. "I dropped the drive off in his mailbox yesterday afternoon. He called when he got back from his friend's house to say he'd gotten it. He said he told him about Rodriguez's insistence that you're guilty."

"She is pretty fixated on me, isn't she?" Joe sighed, the knife stilled halfway down to the tub of cream cheese. "I didn't really think I was her type... Oh. Before I forget. Jamie called last night."

Frank's bagel stopped halfway to his mouth, and he raised an eyebrow. "He trying to shake you down for even more of Aunt Gertrude's cookies?"

"No, which was kind of weird." Joe put more cream cheese on the bagel and took a bite. "You talked to Liz, right?" The words were muffled by the food in his mouth.

"Which one?" Frank asked, putting his bagel down and taking a swig of his coffee.

"Wmmph..." Joe looked surprised at his brother's puzzled look. He swallowed and tried again. "Webling."

Frank nodded. "For a bit. She told you about Mr. Michaels having a new gallery space?"

"Yeah. Apparently it's real hush-hush. I'm not even sure how she found out about it." Joe put the bagel down and took a swig of milk. "Jamie says the company was pressured to expedite payment on the policy."

"Even before the police investigation is done... I don't imagine _that_ went over well at the agency." Frank raised an eyebrow. "I wonder if Mrs. Michaels knows about it..."

Joe shook his head. "Probably not. And no, it's going over like a lead balloon, so he wanted to give me a heads up in case there is more police pressure." He glanced over at the computer. "It working?"

Frank slid the laptop closer and turned it so his brother could see the screen. "Still processing."

"Can't you just click on a section and tell it to enhance?" Joe's fingers started drumming on the table.

"It doesn't work that way in real life." Frank sighed. "That's TV's version of tech."

Joe shrugged. "Too bad. It would make things a lot easier." He glanced at the clock on the wall. "I should head over to the office. Calvin should be there soon. You okay with the rest of the disguise?"

Frank nodded. "Yeah. Thanks, by the way. I appreciate the help."

He twisted experimentally. _Not too much pain_ , he thought. _Good._

"Any time, 'bro." Joe rose and brought his dirty dishes to the sink. "Let me know if anything comes up today, okay?"

Leaving the program running, Frank went back into the bathroom and applied the make-up and wig that turned him into Paul, grateful the wig hadn't suffered any damage in the attack. Before he left the apartment, he checked the laptop one more time.

It was still fuzzy, but more detail was visible. He could see the bottom of a soda bottle on the left side of the frame near Joe's feet, with something that looked like its contents spilled on the floor. The shoe on the right side showed some darker contrast, but it wasn't clear enough to tell if the contrast was stitching or shadows.

He sighed, closed the laptop, and left for the gallery.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Carmine was standing outside waiting for him when he got there. "You okay to be here?"

Frank tapped his chest. "Wrapped up nice and tight."

"Good. New installation's about ta show." He indicated a couple of guys waiting at the edge of the sidewalk, then rubbed the back of his neck. "Even better, we don't have ta move it in. Once everything's set up, all we gotta do is make a few adjustments, then we're done."

"All right."

"You got enough?"

"I don't know." Frank shrugged. "I can only hope so." He indicated the door. "After you."

It was strange being back in the gallery. Everything had been cleaned. The cameras were still in place, but the walls had been cleaned, the track lights had been shifted around, and there were new hooks and hangers in place waiting for the new installation, this time consisting of paintings.

Through the open door of the office, Liz raised a tentative hand in greeting before flushing and lowering her head to her computer.

 _I should have expected that_ , Frank thought.

"She's been doin' real good," Carmine muttered. "She ain't let nothin' slip."

The next few hours were spent checking the security interface on the new office computer to make sure all the cameras would sync correctly, then making slight modifications to their angles so both the paintings and the patrons would be captured on film.

When they were on the last camera, Frank heard footsteps approaching them.

"How are things looking here?" Even without looking up, the attitude told Frank it was von Ormond.

"Just peachy," he said, not turning around and trying very hard to keep any note of sarcasm out of the words.

"So, you are almost done?" The man's accent deepened slightly. "Not that I am trying to rush you."

 _Yes, you are_ , thought Frank. _Something has you on edge. You're nervous._

"Paulie's just got one or two more adjustments to make, then we're good," Carmine said.

" _Paul_." Without looking up from the number pad, Frank made sure to put the right note of complaint in his voice.

Von Ormond grimaced, then tried to cover it up with a fake smile. "Of course. _Paul._ You and Mr. Esposito have been very professional. We will be sure to recommend you to other galleries in the neighborhood."

Frank typed in the last two numbers on the keypad, lifted his hands with a flourish, and spun the desk chair around to face the other two. "Finito," he said. "You're good to go." He held out a hand to von Ormond who looked at it for a long moment before grasping it in a weak, and obviously unwanted, shake. "Nobody's gonna steal _these_ out from under your nose."

" _Paul_ ," Carmine hissed.

"Sorry, uncle. Mr. von Ormond." Frank lowered his head, pretending to be embarrassed. "Sometimes my mouth gets ahead'a my brain..."

He shifted his gaze to the floor, lighting on the gallery manager's shoes. The shoes were expensive, possibly handmade. Brown leather with dark, contrast stitching, and a slight stain near the toes. He froze.

 _Oil_ , he thought. _Or soda…_

He jumped up, pulling his phone from his back pocket as he did so and flipping it open. "Hello?" He send an apologetic look to Carmine, and mouthed, "Police academy. Sorry," before bolting out of the office and out the door onto the street.

Once outside, he called the office.

"Hardy Investigations. How may we help you?" The voice was deep and smooth.

"Calvin? Where's Joe?" He held the phone close to his mouth, speaking as quietly as he could.

There was a moment of silence. "Mr. Hardy?"

"Yes," Frank hissed. "Where's my brother?"

"I'm right here," Joe's voice came through the line, tight like a taut wire. "What's up? Calvin said you sound like something's wrong."

"Not wrong. _Right._ " He took a breath, trying to release some of the tension he felt. "I think we've got von Ormond."


	15. Chapter 15

Thanks to Xenitha, max2013, BMSH, Caranath, hlahabibty, julzdagger88, Paulina Ann, sm2003495, EvergreenDreamweaver, Barb, malinda6069, Jilsen, and everyone who read and enjoyed.

Sorry, this chapter just did not want to write itself, but I finally wrestled it into submission.

 **Chapter 15**

"Seriously, I want to thank you for letting us be here today." Joe flashed one of his feral grins at the detective leading him and his brother down a long hallway. "I can't wait to hear him try to weasel out of this." He faltered as one of Frank's elbows jabbed in the side. "I mean..."

The uniformed man chuckled. "I get it. And you don't need to thank me," he said. "Carmine spoke very highly of you and your brother, and while I never worked with your father, he still has a good reputation around here. Besides, I'm just the tour guide today." He indicated a door just ahead of them on the right with a wave of his hand. "You can head on in. They'll be getting started in a couple of minutes. They're giving the suspect a few minutes alone to contemplate his situation before questioning."

"Does he have a lawyer with him?" Frank asked, nodding when he got an answer in the affirmative. "I would have been surprised if he didn't," he muttered.

Joe waited, one hand on the doorknob and one foot tapping a staccato beat on the worn floor tiles as his brother thanked the detective, shook his hand, and assured him they would pass on a greeting to Carmine for him. Once the man had walked off, he took a deep breath and stilled his foot.

"You all right?" There was a note of concern in Frank's voice.

"Fine," Joe said. "I just wish we were on that side of the wall instead of this one. I want us to be the ones asking the questions."

Frank huffed out a chuckle, followed by a sharp intake of breath. "I can almost imagine the look on his face." He laid a hand on his ribs. "It would almost be worth this. Almost."

Without any warning, the door opened into the hallway. Joe jumped back and twisted to the side, narrowly avoiding being hit in the face. "Hey!" he yelled. "Watch where..." His voice trailed off.

"Sor… Oh, it's you." Detective Rodriguez had one foot in the room, the other in the hallway. She stepped aside to let them enter the viewing room, shaking her head as they walked past her. "Obviously, I don't have to tell you this wasn't my idea." She scowled, pointing a finger at them. "You make one sound, and I'll have the two of you arrested for interfering in a police investigation," she said, before pushing past them and opening the next door down, practically wrenching it off its hinges.

Joe watched the door shut behind her, his head tilted to the side and a half-smile on his face. "That exit would have been far more effective if she'd had to go more than four feet to get in there." He snorted. "And this room is soundproof. We could bring a drum kit in here, and no one next door would hear a thing. She must really think we're stupid."

"I think it's more that our invitation was a mandate from above." Frank settled into a chair in front of the two-way mirror and indicated the men at the table in the other room with his chin. "Do you recognize the lawyer?"

"No." Joe shook his head. "I wonder if he's the lawyer for the gallery or if von Ormond has his own attorney." He shrugged, watching the reactions of the men through the two-way glass as the detective stomped over to the other side of the table. The lawyer was obviously working hard to look both impatient and unimpressed, but Von Ormond's shoulders stiffened slightly as she passed him.

Rodriguez held up a finger then pressed a few buttons on black box on the table, said the date, time, case number, her voice coming in through speakers mounted on the wall over the glass. "Now we can start." She pointed at von Ormond. "Please state your name and address." When he had done so, she had the lawyer do the same.

Joe leaned to the side. "She filming this as well as taping it?"

Frank pointed to a red dot that appeared to be floating in the glass. "Camera's near the ceiling. It's pointing down to the table."

Joe nodded. "Good. Maybe we can get a copy when this is all done."

After summarizing the case, the detective cleared her throat. "Mr. von Ormond, I need to ask you where you were the night of the art theft."

The gallery manager glanced at his lawyer, who nodded.

He cleared his throat. "I was at home. I left the gallery about nine or so then walked to the subway station." His accent, though still subtle, was more noticeable than usual.

 _Must be nervous_ , Joe thought. _Good._

"The subway station?" Rodriguez pulled the notebook from her bulging jacket pocket and flipped a few pages. "You told me you usually take a cab home. What made you ride the subway that night?"

Von Ormond shrugged. "Usually does not mean always, Detective. That night I took the subway." There was a hint of defiance in his voice.

Rodriguez nodded. "And you left around nine? Did you return at all?"

The lawyer raised his hands in an exasperated gesture. "For what reason would he return?"

The detective threw him a bored look, sniffed, then turned back to von Ormond. "Answer the question."

"No. I had a late dinner and went to bed." The manager shifted slightly in his chair. "There was no reason for me to go back. I believed the art to be in good hands."

From the corner of his eye, Joe saw Frank nod once. "What?"

"He's not quite as cool and collected as he wants her to think."

Joe looked from his brother to von Ormond and back again. "He looks the same as usual to me. Okay, maybe a little nervous, which makes me very happy, but who wouldn't be in this situation? And you can tell this how?"

"Look at the lawyer. He's _not_ happy. Von Ormond answered more than she asked." A gleam appeared in his eyes. "She asked if he went back. All he had to do was saw no. But he didn't. He embellished. If she or someone else asked that already..." His gaze sharpened on the glass wall.

Rodriguez was pulling something from a file folder that Joe couldn't see.

"Can you explain this then?"

As she handed him the paper, Joe caught a brief glimpse of the image of him in the chair. There was a red circle drawn in marker around the brown blob on the right side of the page.

The lawyer took the paper, examined it, and handed it to his client who glanced at it once and immediately shifted his gaze back to the police detective.

"I do not know what that is supposed to be. A stain on the floor perhaps?" He turned to his lawyer. "If they are not charging me with anything, they have to let me go, yes?"

"How about this one?" Rodriguez took another piece of paper from the folder. This one Joe could more easily see as she flourished it and placed it on the table. It was the enlarged and enhanced photo. "As you can see. It's a shoe."

Von Ormond's face remained still.

"One," she continued, "that looks remarkably like one of a pair found in your apartment this afternoon when we conducted our search."

The lawyer placed his hands on the table. "My client is done answering questions, Detective."

"Just one more," Rodriguez said. "Are you a naturalized citizen, or are you here on a green card, Mr. von Ormond."

The lawyer sputtered. "I fail to see..."

Rodriguez scowled at him, pointing a finger in his face. "I didn't ask you. I asked him." She turned back to the gallery manager. "So, which is it? Citizen or green card?"

"I have a green card," von Ormond said, a puzzled expression on his face. "I am in this country legally, Detective Rodriguez. You have no right to accuse me of being here illegally." His voice grew louder, his tone going up half an octave. "I came through the proper channels, and..."

"Oh, I'm not concerned about that." The detective smiled, interrupting his protest. "I just wanted to make sure you knew that since you are here on a green card, if you're convicted of an aggravated felony, you can be deported. Did your lawyer mention that to you? And I'm pretty sure that once you have that on your record, INS won't allow you back in the country."

This time von Ormond blanched. "Vot?" His accent suddenly became much more pronounced.

"I need some coffee. Would either of you gentlemen like coffee? No? Okay. I'll be right back." Rodriguez stood, turned the recording devices off, and swept out of the room, closing the door behind her.

Joe smiled. _Gotcha._

For the few minutes the detective was gone, von Ormond raged in whispers at the lawyer, who had his hands raised out in front of him and was frantically whispering back.

"Boy, I wish I could read lips," Joe said. "Not that this isn't entertaining, but it could also be a lot more informative."

Frank sighed. "I'm not sure it would do us much good. A good chunk of it seems to be in German. Which neither one of us speaks."

"How can you tell?" Joe's glanced quickly at his brother before returning his attention to the scene in front of them.

"Because I _can_ read lips. Somewhat," he amended after seeing Joe's raised eyebrows. "I have no idea what von Ormond is saying, but as near as I can tell, the lawyer is mostly telling him he doesn't understand German and to calm down."

Finally, the gallery manager stood, swung his arms to the front, and made an extremely rude gesture with his hands.

Joe turned to his brother, his own hand outstretched and palm up. "Oh, hey. Now that I understood." His left leg started bouncing. "This is better than television."

The silent shouting stopped when the door swung open. The detective entered, now carrying a steaming mug of coffee. She took a look at the two men, one standing and scowling, the other seated and wide-eyed.

"Everything all right in here?" she asked, an innocent expression plastered on her face. She took a sip of her coffee. "I feel like I missed something." She sauntered over to her seat and pressed the buttons again. "So, to continue."

"Nein."

Rodriguez raised an eyebrow at von Ormond. "Excuse me? This is _my_ investigation. _You_ don't get to decide when we stop."

Von Ormond sat back in his seat. "I no longer wish this man to represent me. I would like him to leave."

"But… Mr. Michaels..." The man's eyes grew even wider.

"You don't seem to be listening, sir," Rodriguez said. "Mr. Michaels isn't here, and I very clearly heard Mr. von Ormond say he doesn't want you as his lawyer." Her voice grew steely. "So, you need to go." She stood, opened the door, and waited for the man to leave. "Have a nice day," she called after him before turning back to the table. "So, should we continue?"

The next hour was extremely interesting as the gallery manager started talking and didn't stop.

"It was all the idea of Mr. Michaels," he said. "He wanted die scheidung, and..."

Rodriguez put up a hand. "The what-huh?"

An exasperated sigh escaped von Ormond's lips. "The divorce," he said. "He wanted to divorce Mrs. Michaels but was afraid she would get the gallery, so he arranged for the theft to ruin its reputation."

The detective nodded. "And the reputation of the detective agency that was hired to do the security."

Von Ormond shrugged. "He did not deem that to be important."

Joe stiffened. Glancing over at Frank, he could see his brother's eyes go dark.

"And what did you think about it?" The woman's voice was calm and measured, but the steel in her eyes made the manager shrink back into his chair.

"I… I did not like what he was doing," he finally said. "He was threatening me. He was withholding my paychecks. I had to do what he wanted. I had no choice." Panic made his voice louder and shriller.

Joe snorted. "Just like he had no choice to drug me. Right..."

As if she had heard him, Rodriguez immediately said, "And what about the assaults? Did you know about those?"

"There was more than one?" The man let out a breath and looked at the table. "Not exactly." He let out a breath. "I thought the soda might have been tampered with, but..."

"Don't ask; don't tell?" There was a sardonic note in the detective's voice.

"Ja." Von Ormond almost looked relieved, as if the detective understood.

"And the assault on Frank Hardy?"

At this von Ormond tilted his head to one side. "Is that the second assault you mentioned? I do not know that name," he said. "Is he related to…?

Rodriguez cut him off. "Oh, that's right. You didn't meet him as Frank Hardy." She paused, looking down at her notes. "You know him as Paul Sorrento."

Joe watched as the blood drained from the gallery manager's face. "You know, I think the penny dropped."

Frank just smiled.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

By the time the interview ended, a warrant had been put out for Mr. Michaels' arrest, and von Ormond had written out a lengthy statement detailing the insurance fraud, the assault on Joe, and some additional questionable financial dealings Mr. Michaels had been involved in. He adamantly refused to admit to knowing anything about the attack on Frank, though, and dedicated several paragraphs of the statement enumerating the ways in which he was also a victim of his employer which made Detective Rodriguez grit her teeth as she read the statement out loud. Finally, the statement was signed and the gallery manager was escorted out by the detective and a uniformed officer with the standard warning about not leaving the city.

"Or the country," Rodriguez added.

Von Ormond gulped and nodded, practically bolting from the room after the officer.

Joe turned to Frank. "Well, I guess that's that. Can we leave now?" At his brother's shrug, he sighed. "Well, I hope we don't have to sit here too long. My butt's falling asleep."

"Thanks for sharing," Frank said. "I really needed to know that." He slowly stretched his back, straightening slightly in his chair and grimacing with the motion. "Okay, to be fair, I feel some sympathy for your behind. I think I've rusted."

"Maybe we'll get lucky," Joe said, pushing himself up and pressing his hands against his lower back.

"Lucky how?"

Joe grinned. "Maybe he'll still be out there when we leave. I would love to see his face as we walk by."

"Wishful thinking, little brother. Wishful thinking."

"Yeah, I know, but I can dream, can't I?" He looked up at the clock on the wall. "Do you think they've forgotten us? It's been..."

The door swung open.

For a long moment, Detective Rodriguez stood just outside the room, her face a professional mask. She looked first at Frank, then turned her gaze to Joe. "Obviously you heard all of that."

"It would have been hard not to." Joe knew his voice held an edge, but he couldn't help it.

"Joe." His brother's voice was soft but insistent.

Joe gritted his teeth and nodded, his right foot starting to tap on the floor.

"Does this mean we're cleared as suspects in the robbery?" Frank's tone changed to one of steely professionalism.

Rodriguez regarded them both. "Yes."

Joe threw up his hands. "And?!"

She blew out a breath. "I suppose you're waiting for me to apologize for suspecting you." The words were flat.

"You think?" Joe shook his head. "But you're not going to, are you?"

"Apologize for doing my job?" She shook her head. "No." Her shoulders softened. "Apologize for not doing _all_ of it? Yes. I'm sorry I didn't look more diligently into the attacks on you both. But I won't apologize for looking at you as suspects." Her back stiffened again. "It's what any good cop would do. And your methods of getting evidence..." She shook her head. "You're lucky I'm not looking into those too closely."

"I can't…!"

Frank laid a hand on his brother's arm and turned to the detective. "Have someone from the department contact us when this goes to trail. You'll need our evidence." He locked his gaze on her, his eyes like frozen stone. "And maybe next time our paths cross, if there is a next time, you'll remember we're the ones who handed you your suspect." His hand dropped back down. "Come on. We're done here." Then he pushed past the woman standing in the doorway.

Joe stood for a second, anger burning on edges of his skin. "I don't know why you had it out for us – our ages, who our dad is – it doesn't matter. Whatever it is, you need to lose it, or you're going to lose your integrity as a cop."

He followed Frank out the door.


	16. Chapter 16

I'm sorry this took longer to post than I was expecting given how short it is. RL intruded on me in less than pleasant ways. Over the past few months, my mother's health declined rapidly, and she passed away a little over a week ago. She had a chronic illness, so it is a blessing that she is no longer in pain any more, but it has been hard. And to make things more complicated all around, my boyfriend's father passed away about a week before my mother did, so we had one parent's funeral on one Tuesday and another parent's funeral the following Tuesday. Tonight is the first time I have had time to and been able to write in a month. It feels good, and I hope you enjoy the ending to this story. There will be another, but I am not sure when. – Leya

Thanks to max2013, BMSH, EvergreenDreamweaver, Drumboy100, Caranath, Candylou, Jilsen, Xenitha, sm2003495, Barb, Paulina Ann, neoxer, and all who read and enjoyed. Last chapter of this one.

 **Chapter 16**

Chet sat frozen, his burger in one hand hovering in the air, forgotten. "I… Wow…" He drew in a long breath, finally placing the food back down on his plate. "Okay... I can see why you wouldn't want to work with him. Makes complete and total sense."

Joe snorted, threw a fry in his mouth, and followed it with a swig from his beer. "You think?" He waved a hand at their friend. "Sorry. I just can't even hear his name without getting mad all over again."

"It's okay. I get it," Chet said. He picked up his burger again, took a bite and swallowed. "So, what happened? Did Michaels get any jail time? And what about, you know, _him_?"

"Michaels got a year in jail for the felony charge." Frank placed his silverware on the edge of his plate. "They couldn't prove the assault charges, though. Not enough evidence."

"Yeah..." Joe snorted again.

Chet looked puzzled. "But what about von Ormond?" He glanced at Joe. "Sorry. But he admitted to drugging you."

"No," Frank said. "He admitted to _thinking_ the soda had been tampered with." He picked up his silverware again and cut another slice of chicken. "It couldn't be proven that he was the one who did the tampering. Or that his boss instructed him to."

"Although we completely know he was, and that he did," Joe said, grabbing the beer bottle again.

"You know." Frank turned to Chet. "This," he waved the hand holding his fork at his brother," doesn't look calm to me. How about you?"

"Nope," Chet said. "Not getting in the middle of this." He picked a fry up and dabbed it in ketchup. "So, why didn't he get any jail time?"

Joe let out a breath. "He cut a deal. Witness for the prosecution." The fingers of his left hand started drumming on the tabletop. " _Not_ my choice."

Chet nodded. "So, is the gallery still in business?"

"Oh, yes," Frank said. "Because of the financial improprieties, Mrs. Michaels got the bulk of the assets in the divorce, including the business assets. She closed for a bit to reorganize and reopened under a new name."

Chet raised his eyebrows. "Which is?"

Frank smiled. "Chrysalis."

"Oh, that's nice," Chet said. "Appropriate. What happened to Liz? She didn't lose her job, did she?"

Joe snorted again. "No. Mrs. Michaels made her the gallery manager. It turns out she was the one making most of the decisions anyway."

"The first show at the gallery was Mrs. O'Brien's," Frank said. "With all the publicity surrounding the initial theft, she sold out before the show closed." He took a bite of his salad, chewed, and swallowed. "She never got any of the other sculptures back, but as she said, most of her supplies were found objects, so she didn't lose too much money on them. Mostly it was her time." He looked at his brother, his dark eyes dancing. "I'd say we suffered the greater loss there."

Joe rolled his eyes.

"Okay," Chet looked from one brother to the other, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Either I missed something, or there's something here you aren't telling me. I'm guessing the latter."

Frank's lips quirked into a half-smile. "You haven't asked about Calvin."

Chet shrugged. "I just assumed he got a better offer. You guys did go through a lot of office managers there for a while." He flashed them both a grin. "At least until I took over the job."

"Oh, he got a better offer all right," Joe said. "Once Liz became the gallery manager, she offered him the office position. With a bigger salary."

"As well as some other perks," Frank murmured into his whiskey.

"Other… perks?" Chet took another bite of his burger and waved his hand in a 'tell-me-more' gesture.

Joe sighed. "They got married."

"Liz and Calvin?" Chet nearly choked. "What? When?!"

"Couple of months ago." Joe downed a gulp of beer. "We went to the wedding. Carmine did, too."

"It was at the gallery," Frank said. "They felt it was symbolic."

Joe shook his head and sighed again. "It was a loss..."

Frank raised an eyebrow at him. "Says the man with Kara to go home to..."

"What? No!" Joe's cheeks flushed. "I meant Calvin..."

Chet gave him a long look, then turned to Frank, a lopsided grin on his face. "Do you think he realizes that's not better? I mean, I'm sitting right here..."

Joe flushed deeper and pushed the rest of his beer away. "You know. I think I'm done with this." He looked at the clock on the wall. "And I think I'm going to go home to my _lovely_ girlfriend before I say anything else that gets me into trouble." He pulled some bills from his wallet. "I'm guessing this isn't a business lunch, so this should cover me."

Frank flicked a glance at the money on the table and nodded. "You might want to consider a nice long walk before hitting the subway."

"Oh, I will," Joe said. "The last thing I need is to go home and run my mouth off." He stood, put his wallet back in his pocket, and raked a hand through his hair. "See you both tomorrow."

"Oh, hold on a second," Chet snapped his fingers. "With all the excitement, I forgot." He wiped his hands on his napkin. "You had a call this morning while you were on the phone with the Perkins Gallery people. Wow, say that five times fast..." He shook his head. "Anyway, he didn't want your voicemail and didn't want to say what it was about."

"That sounds mysterious. Did you get a name?"

Chet nodded. "Tom Rickman, I think he said."

"Ryckman," Joe said automatically. "Tommy Ryckman. Old New York family. I went to college with him."

Frank raised an eyebrow. "Wasn't he the one that moved off your floor and into one of the party fraternities?"

Joe nodded. "Yeah, although I have no idea why you remember that. We weren't close. I knew him to say hello to, but that's about it." He turned to Chet. "And he didn't say what he wanted?"

"Not a word," Chet said. "He just gave his name and asked if you would be in over the next few days." He shrugged. "I told him as far as I knew you would be, but if he really wanted to see you, he should make an appointment."

"Well, we'll see if he shows." Joe waved as he turned. "See you both tomorrow," he said.

Frank pushed a bit more of his salad around on the plate before giving up and laying his silverware down. "I think I'm done," he said. "I'm going to head out, too."

Chet wiped his hands again and put the napkin down on the table. "I think I'll go surprise Marisol. If she's not booked this afternoon, maybe I'll take her to Central Park for a walk." As he rose, he said, "What do you think this Ryckman guy wants?"

"It's probably nothing. He's probably in town for a few days and wants to catch up with Joe." He pushed his chair in. "I guess we'll find out."


End file.
